Kaiyden
by Sergeant Sargent II
Summary: "Never let this blade out of your control again. It's the only thing on this forsaken plateau that you can trust." A tale of one stoat's journey from dibbunhood to Redwall, and all the violence in between. [M for violence, as well as very little language and minor suggestion. Nothing sexually explicit.]
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: **

**This was my first story but I took it down. It has been revised and continued since it last appeared. **

**M for a lot of violence, as well as very little language and minor suggestion. Nothing sexually explicit and little or no romance in the plot. I find it odd that out of 2,000 Redwall fics, fewer than fifty are M, especially given the way even the canon sometimes tends toward violence. Does anyone actually look at M stories? Does anyone but me adjust the filters to even show M stories in this archive? [There is a poll on my profile to this effect.]**

**FAIR WARNING: This story is violent. **

**There are some clichés in this story. I apologize. In my defense, I offer two points. First, I started this story long before I realized these things were cliché. Second, things become cliché for a reason. Often [though not always], it's because they are awesome. **

**I owe my deepest ****thanks to ****Wiechcheu1925 ****for his patient and enthusiastic support of this story. I owe you. **

**Other acknowledgments at the beginning of chapter two.**

"

"

"

On the eastern edge of Mossflower country, rain darkened the sky to a gloomy gray. Two passengers drifted downriver on a wide square raft. At the back end was a small roof which sheltered a scruffy shrew as he sat piloting the craft with a rudder mounted on with a rickety array of wood and ropes.

"Oi! Where'd you say you was headed?" the shrew called, addressing the other passenger. This one wore a hooded cloak and carried a sturdy oak staff. He stood in the middle of the raft, gazing intently ahead, seemingly oblivious to the rain. Water seemed to roll off the cloak like it had been greased or oiled. The forepaws that gripped his staff were unremarkable, save for a crooked right pinky finger that must have been badly broken at one time or another.

"I didn't," was the stranger's curt reply.

"Alright then, dung-for-brains, allow me to clarify. Where do you want me kick you off this tub?"

"At the next town or village with a tavern."

"Finally got tired of the rain then? Ha! As long as ye pay. An' no funny business. I've dealt with enough vermin to handle your scrawny behind!"

"Really," the hooded one murmured under his breath, too quietly for the shrew to hear.

Getting no response, the pilot huffed and returned to his work. "Keep yeh peace then, vermin." Bored, he broke into an upbeat song mocking the rain and picking on Mother Nature for her failure to upset him.

The stranger merely leaned on his staff, impassive.

So they rode on, the hooded stranger standing silently while the shrew pilot belted out river shanties as the rain beat down on the silently moving river.

Several hours later, the raft approached a narrow dock leading to a trail that wound away into the forest. "This is it! That path'll join the road a good few hundred yards in an' then take ye straight through Darmuth after about three miles. If you're looking for a tavern, ye won't do better than the Roughback Inn, just ask around, they'll point ye to it. For your own good, don't try anything. Ol' Jeb the innkeeper don't take kindly to vermin trying to make off with what aint theirs. O' an tell 'im 'ello from his buddy Skip McGroder 'eh?"

The stranger handed the pilot several coins, then stepped off the raft, limping heavily on his staff, and trudged toward the path without a word.

Irritated at being so rudely ignored, the shrew stomped back to his raft and pushed off. "Fine day to yew as well, vermin!" he called as the stranger's cloak disappeared into the quickly darkening forest. "Ye dung heap!"

Roughly two hours before midnight, a burly hedgehog stood at his bar cleaning the dust from a row of mugs set out in front of him. As he worked, he eyed the other occupants of the room. In the far corner, three hares sat loudly discussing the best way to deal with marauding vermin, each presenting ever more elaborate examples of his own exploits in doing so. Behind the innkeeper, a closed door led to his own living quarters, while a set of stairs to the right led to the four guest rooms. To his left, a weasel lay passed out over the bar, still gripping his almost empty mug and drooling. His companion, another weasel, slumped in his seat, eyeing the not quite unattended mug, and glancing down at his own empty one.

The second weasel raised his mug and called out "'Ey Jeb, bring us, 'nother round! Jus', one more!"

"Pay first, then ya can have your drink," Jeb answered.

"Ah, burn in Hellgates!"

"'Nough o' that now. I aint kicked ya' out yet 'cuase it's rainin', but you an' your thick noggin are welcome to have a chat with ole Bertha any time ya' like!" he said, jabbing his thumb at a large oak club nestled on two large pegs in the wall.

"Jeb I still don't understand why you sell to their filth!" one of the hares shouted from his seat at the table, a little too loudly.

"Same goes for you Attus, I've warned you about stirrin' up trouble in my establishment." Jeb called back. "Bertha will get along just as well with your head as with his!"

Now another of the hares spoke up. "We got to find yew a wife ma' friend. Yer lonely ass has gotten far too fond o' Bertha's wood with so few lady folk around!"

"Can it, March, or I'll have to start tellin' stories."

March gulped.

"I seem to remember a particularly disastrous night when yer ale' made ya a bit blind in the eyes. Who was it you were, romancin' again… Oh, I remember, it was that paintin' of a mermaid some travelin' artist brought through one evenin', a vole I think."

March flattened his ears back and buried his nose in his mug, but Jeb wasn't finished.

"As I recall, you were just pourin out yer heart to the painted lass when ya spilt yer mug all over the paintin, and the artist chased ya out swearin' fer blood."

The other two hares guffawed, one falling out of his chair in an intoxicated fit of laughter. "N' what, what was it 'e said 'n th' way out, eh door… I'll come… back for ye… _Darling!_ " he managed, still giggling.

"Drunken fools," the old hedgehog muttered good naturedly, leaving them to their merriment. Just as Jeb was turning back to his row of mugs, the door creaked open. A hooded figure clomped in, leaning heavily on a staff as he limped toward the bar.

"Greetins' stranger," Jeb called. "Bit late to be travelin' in these parts. What brings ya here at this hour?"

"I need directions. And food," the figure replied.

"Well, for starters, ya can lose the hood. I'll be seein' the faces of those in my tavern."

The stranger hesitated. This would be the best place to find what he needed. The innkeeper would know more than any beast else in the whole town. Every bit of news, gossip, and information passed through a tavern at some point and the innkeepers knew all of it. But this also made the tavern dangerous. The inn keeper would remember his face… It couldn't be helped, he decided. He needed directions.

After a pause, he reached up a paw and pulled back the hood, revealing himself to be a stoat. A pearly, curved scar ran across his face, starting at his right ear and running down his face at an angle. It stopped at the eyebrow and picked up again at the top of the cheek, neatly avoiding his right eye, crossed the corner of his mouth, and ended at the center of his jaw.

Jeb chuckled. "Well, that's attractive."

The stranger ignored the comment. "I'm searching for a good healer, one who can deal with infections."

"Just how bad are we talkin'? I might be able to patch ya up, or I could send ya down the street to Finnie, if it's serious."

"The wound is large and in the later stages of infection," the stranger replied.

"Mind if I 'ave a look?"

In reply, the stoat pulled aside his cloak. One leg was bandaged around the thigh, and even under his tunic it was obviously swollen to twice the size of the other. The part of the bandage that could be seen was discolored in sickly shades.

A low whistle escaped the large hedgehog. As he looked at the stranger again, he noticed the stoat did seem feverish and his eyes were bloodshot. His brow was beaded with sweat, despite having been protected from the rain by his hood. "I guess you are in trouble. Mind tellin' where you got that little scratch?"

"A rat on the path tried to rob me," the stranger lied.

"An' how did that turn out?"

"We reached an understanding." As he spoke, the stranger fingered the hilt of a brass pommeled dagger strapped to his waist.

"I see," said Jeb, chuckling. "Hmm. Well, that looks beyond Finnie's expertise, even though she'd gut me fer sayin' so. The only healer I know of with a record for treatin' injuries like that lives at Redwall, and goes by the name o' Carlotta. It's a long trek from here to there, but you seem like you can handle it, an' ya can ride most of the way there by river. This branch of the river will get you halfway there, then it'll join the Moss. Hop off at the ford, an' ya got about half a day's journey down the road from there, though I reckon it'll take yew a good bit longer with that leg. If ya like, I'll fix ya a ride with old McGroder when he comes through next. I'm always happy to send 'im business an' I can get him to give you a fair price."

"I arrived on McGroder's raft. How many other boats travel this river?"

"Hmm. Not many. McGroder makes the rounds on this stretch o' river about once every week or so. Mako is taking a load of turnips downriver tomorrow an' ya might be able to catch a ride with him, but he's a grouch. Ornery old thing he is, an' he'll charge ya steep to take a vermin as cargo. Ya'd be better off waitin' for McGroder, that's my advice."

"Actually I'd prefer to hurry."

"Your call friend. But like I said, he'll want a pretty penny. Ya can meet 'im 'ere around noon when he passes through with his cart heading for the docks. Now, in the mean time, what can I get for ya? I've got everything ya can imagine ta drink, but not much in the way of vittles, Danny 'asn't been through lately so I haven't 'ad the chance to stock up."

"Bread and water. And flour for the road."

"Bread and water?" Jeb sputtered. "Wh-, ya don't come to a tavern to drink water! It's a bloody insult!"

The stoat's face remained expressionless. "I prefer to keep my wits about me."

Jeb sighed. "Well, with those two fine specimens sitting over there I suppose I can't blame ya," he muttered, indicating the two weasels further down the bar. The second one was now clumsily trying to switch his own mug for his companion's. "How much flower d' ya want?"

"A pound. And I'll need a room for the night."

"Yeah, yeah." The big hedgehog moved off grumbling. "_Bread _and _water_. Bah!"

The stranger winced. So much for passing through quietly. The hedgehog would remember him for months. Jeb returned with the items, the stranger downed the water in one long draft, then picked up the bread and flower before making his way to the stairs.

"You can take the first one on the right," Jeb called grumpily. The sound of a brawl followed the stranger up the small flight of stairs.

"Yoose tryinss ssteal ma drink!"

"Well you weren't 'bout to drink it!"

By the time he reached the room, the stoat had devoured the bread and stowed the flower in the small backpack hidden by his cloak. As he entered the room, the stranger paused to get his bearings, then removed the cloak and carefully shut it in the door so that it hung several pawspans off the floor. Anybeast trying to enter silently would be unsuccessful, and would have to stumble over the cloak if they tried to move quickly. Simple, but effective.

Given the choice, he would have left and found his own shelter. If not for his wound, he would never have come through here at all. He even considered leaving, then and there. But the cold would not do him any good, and fire would be impossible with the rain. There would be nowhere dry to stop and he had only his cloak for shelter. He needed to rest. Stress was taking its toll. The stoat could feel his mind slipping.

Ignoring the bed, and the single unlit candle, he crossed the room in almost total darkness and seated himself on the floor with his back against the far corner. He stretched out his bad leg, and curled the other underneath it. He drew the dagger, then retrieved a whetstone from his pack and began to sharpen the weapon. The stranger ground the stone over one side of the edge, then back down the other, slowly and methodically, never watching his work but rather staring intently at the narrow strips of light that were the door.

In the morning he would set out for Redwall, but then where? Traveling west, he would soon reach the coast. The world was only so large.

Sitting in the darkness, the only sounds were the patter of rain, voices from the tavern, and the

slow rasp of the whetstone. He began to hum absently, the tune like a lullaby, hearing the words in his

mind.

_Eyes wide, all the night,_

_Watching till the light._

_Hear the moaning in the wind,_

_As beasts and spirits wail._

_Those asleep, protected lie,_

_They ne'er need dread the gale._

_But wakeful child, now ye lie,_

_Where beasts and spirits wail,_

_Damned to wander in the night,_

_Eternal 'till the light._

_So fear, ye wakeful child frail,_

_Softly now, when beasts and spirits wail._

_They seek you out and pine to feed,_

_Softly now, indeed._

_Cold claws of fear ye feel,_

_Hunted, by things surreal._

_So keep thy vigil, till the light,_

_Ye watcher o're the night._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **

**Hi! Just to tell anyone who follows this story, updates and chapter length may be erratic. Sorry. As for reviews, write away. I'm open to respectful criticism, or suggestions.**

**FAIR WARNING: **_**This story is violent**_**. It started as fight scenes played out in my head while listening to loud music. The plot evolved from there. **

**Many thanks to you who reviewed before: **

**-****ferretWARLORD****, my first reviewer ever. If I can make it happen, the woozels will return at least once.**

**-****Dancing Lunar Wolves****, my first acquaintance on this site.**

**-****King's Critic****, for honest and respectful criticism.**

**-****RapmarkSkaup**

**-****Guest**

**-****Free Thought****, for helpful and constructive suggestions which have since been taken into account.**

**-****The Russian Soldier****, Sup. **

** In true Redwall fashion, this story will have a dual plotline. The first was introduced in chapter one; this chapter will introduce the second, and give a bit more on the first. The second plotline will be told as a series of flashbacks of events, often introduced by a conversation between certain characters. Anyone familiar with the Graff-Anderson introductions to chapters in ****Ender's Game**** will understand immediately. I may even steal those names since they are doing essentially the same thing… So, maybe not true Redwall fashion, but close. The two will converge, in a way, at a much later point. **

** There is a reason I'm not using certain names. I have something interesting planned. Hopefully it doesn't impair my writing and I won't have to apologize. **

** To anyone reading: This plotline in particular will get very dark if I write it properly.**

"

"

*many seasons in the past…*

"

"

** "Sir, why are we here dealing with children? I thought we were supposed be training soldiers."**

"**We are here to seek out likely candidates. We choose the candidates young because the first skills and habits a beast learns become his strongest. These youngins have already grown up in conditions that suit our purpose well. They are chosen from off the streets and from among the slave children because those environments have already started to condition some of them. That way, if the right traits coincide, they are preserved, even developed, until I find them. It is an art to identify the ones we want from among these desperate creatures, but sometimes they stand out. When we find the right ones, and mold them into the warriors we are here to create, the results are impressive."**

"**Why not just take all of these misfits? Why all this searching for the perfect ones?"**

"**Simply put, we lack the time and resources to train all of them. We must be selective. Some are more likely to succeed than others. **

**A difficult life has made them all tenacious, but not all are true fighters, Captain. Many are no more than bullies, cowards in the face of a real challenge. They would sooner run than stand and fight. Such traits will keep them alive here, but are useless to us. We are looking for the ones who already have certain natural talents and a killer's instinct, but also the right temperament to make good use of those gifts."**

"

"

"

Far, far to the east of Mossflower, the city of Calibeck stretched in every direction. At the city center, massive stone buildings, statues, and other architecture stood around a massive palace that rose as a monument to the wealth and power of the stoat empire, Treysha. The outskirts of the city gave way to sprawling slums of buildings made from ancient boards, dry and brittle as matchsticks. A fiery sun began to dip below the horizon as two young stoats crouched in the shadows of an alleyway beside a baker's shop.

They huddled against the wall, whispering intently. The pair looked to be barely more than dibbuns, and alike enough to be brothers, the elder one only a season or two older.

"You go distract him at the front, I'll get in the back and get the bread while he's busy."

"You always get to steal the bread, I want to do it this time!"

"Shut up, whiner, you're not big enough to hide it."

"I'm not that much smaller!"

"Wanna bet?!" the older one hissed as he grabbed and twisted the ear of his sibling, whose face and body to contorted with pain as he tried to escape. He never made a sound though; he knew better than to cause a commotion in this part of the city. Besides, the baker might hear.

With one last spiteful yank, the older brother threw his partner in crime to the ground and stormed deeper into the alley. "Just do what I told you and keep him busy!" Glaring daggers after his elder as he picked himself off the dirt, the younger stoat turned and headed the other way, toward the main street.

He reached the front door of the shop and paused, remembering the last time he and his brother had robbed this shop. _Maybe he won't recognize me… _with that the young stoat pushed open the door, jangling a small bell as he did so, and entered the shop.

The baker was a fat stoat in a clean white chef's apron and a distinctive mushroom shaped hat. He stood behind a counter with his back to the door, working on something the young stoat couldn't see. "Make it quick, I'm closin' up for the night! Freshest ones 'd be the cakes in that corner," he called, gesturing but not taking his eyes off of his work. When he received no reply, the fat baker's ears pricked up. He turned, revealing an impressive set of chins. "Eh' who- Aaawww, get out you little cretin! You'll get no handouts from me! And don't even think about trying to steal my goods you…_you!_"

With that the bakers face changed from annoyance to rage and the youngin was forced to nimbly avoid a meat cleaver that came hurtling toward him in the same instant. Ducking behind a shelf of muffins, he briefly wondered why a baker would have a meat cleaver, before glancing back through the gap in the shelves at the furious baker. He yelped and ducked again as a second meat cleaver, this one hurled side arm through the gap in the shelves, passed through the area previously occupied by his face, filling the air with muffin debris.

Realizing the folly in his choice of cover, the young stoat dove around the shelf behind him into the next isle back. He quickly came to the conclusion that the baker, having produced yet a third identical blade, had, since the last time they had encountered one and other, acquired a large set of meat cleavers for precisely the present purpose. "I'm not tryin' t' steal anythin' this time!" _A half truth._ The young stoat positioned himself behind a solid-looking barrel of flour at the end of the second shelf and peered cautiously over, finding the baker still holding his third weapon poised to throw.

"Half my shop destroyed the last time I saw you, goods everywhere, shelves ruined, an' you two still think you can come in here and make a mockery of _me_?"

"That was your own fault for throwin' your goods at us y' great oaf!" came the reply as the third cleaver slammed violently into the barrel. "Your aim's gotten better though!"

"BaaAAhhhhh! When I get my hands around your scrawny little necks, you two are gonna-" Suddenly, he stopped short. "You… _TWO!"_ he roared, vaulting the counter with surprising agility for one of his girth, and charging the wooden door leading to his back storerooms.

"Ruunn!" the younger brother shouted in warning to his sibling. He then seized the opportunity to stuff his ratty shirt with as many bread rolls as he could carry off the shelf beside him and snatch the lid to the flour barrel by its rope handle, which was tied through a knothole near the edge.

The baker was almost at the storeroom door when it flew open. The older brother burst out holding a long loaf of bread over one shoulder, darted around the stumbling baker and bolted for the door. The younger brother dashed after his partner, slinging the barrel lid over one shoulder as he ran. Just as the younger stoat was out the front door, the baker's fourth meat cleaver hit the improvised shield with enough force to make the small creature stumble. Then he was skidding out across the street and down an alleyway opposite the bakery, sprinting after his older brother and clutching his shirt to hold onto the rolls as they left the bellowing shopkeeper far behind.

The pair stopped, panting, when they reached a quite alley nearly half a mile away, and sat against the wall to examine their catch. They split up the roles and the older brother tore off half of the loaf, keeping the larger piece for himself.

After a while the younger stoat spoke up, chewing as he spoke. "Why did I have to go in there anyway? He never would have known you were there and I wouldn't of got knives thrown at me! We could of both gone in the back and got twice this much. Besides, he only knew you were back there because he recognized me!"

"An' whose fault was that? You were supposed to keep him distracted!"

"That's what 'm sayin'! I didn't have to! We coulda both gone in the back an got out without him ever knowin' anyone robbed him. Come to think of it, we coulda robbed the same shop a bunch a' times an 'e never woulda known, but now he's gonna lock that door!"

"He did lock the door dimwit! I barely made it in the window 'for you hollered. That's why I had to run out through the shop with knives flyin' everywhere, thank you very much!"

"He'll lock the window then! Anyway we can't do _that_ again, or he's _sure _to kill me next time!"

The older one snatched his brother's share of the bread. "Fine! You can get your own food," he said, throwing the food to the ground and stamping his foot on it.

"HEY! I did get my own food!" The younger stoat tried to reach for one of the roles in his brother's lap, but was met by a blow to the face instead, knocking him onto his side. The younger stoat scrambled further away, snatching his soiled bread of the ground and retreating to the far side of the alley. There, he sat nursing the side of his face and glowering as he tried to pick the dirt off his meal. He couldn't afford not to, since he had no idea when they might eat again. They had plenty tonight, but the brothers' luck might not hold tomorrow.

"Serves you right for tryin' to steal my food," the older one said through a mouthful of clean bread.

Dark was falling when the younger one finished his food and picked up his stolen shield. One of the baker's meat cleavers was still embedded in the boards of the barrel lid that had probably saved his life.

"Hey, what's that?" asked the older stoat, getting up to come and get a better look.

The younger brother ignored him. He pried the weapon loose and held t up to the fading light.

"Le'me see," the older brother said, grabbing the flat side of the blade, and started to pull it out of his brother's hand.

"No, it's mine, I'm the one who got hit with it!"

"You don't even know how to use it."

"Neither do you!"

He tried to hold onto his new possession, but to no avail. The bigger stoat gave one more tug and wrenched it free, then walked further away with the new weapon, slashing and stabbing the air in mock heroics. "I know!" he said, turning back with a gleam in his eyes. "Let's play a game. I've got a sword, and you've got a shield. Lets have a swordfight!"

"No. I want to go to sleep. 'Sides, you gotta have two swords for a swordfight."

"Ok. I'll hit you, and you can just sit there."

The younger brother growled, snatched up his "shield," and stood ready, holding it by the boards in the back that crossed the surface to hold the rest of the lid together. The two circled, staring each other down. Without warning, the older brother charged, swinging wildly and battering his sibling back as the latter struggled to ward off the blows. The younger stoat pulled the shield up to protect his head, then gasped as the meat cleaver slashed by his belly, inches from tearing him open. "You almost gutted me!" he cried in indignation, momentarily lowering the shield. The blade flashed again, now at his head, and this time the younger stoat wasn't fast enough to avoid it. He cried out in pain as the honed edge of the blade cleanly sliced off the tip of his right ear. "You cut of a piece of my ear!" his voice was shrill with rising terror.

"Oh, stop whining." The older stoat chided, and continued his onslaught.

The younger stoat found his fear replaced by rage. When the cleaver stuck in the wood, he seized the opportunity and twisted the shield, wrenching the blade out of the older one's hand. Without missing a beat, the young stoat dove at his older brother, tackling him into the wall and driving his head into the larger sibling's stomach. Taking advantage of this momentary upper hand, he started using his fists, punching everything he could reach.

Then the older stoat brought up a knee, hitting his adversary hard in the crotch. He shoved the younger brother out to arms length and drove one fist into the face of his smaller opponent, who crumpled to the ground. The older stoat fell on top of him and continued to batter the younger brother into submission.

Then he stood up, brushed himself off, and sat against one wall examining his new meat cleaver. It was now too dark to make out more than his vague outline and the gleam off of both his eyes and the blade he held in his lap.

The younger brother struggled to rise, his breathing ragged. He crawled to the other wall and collapsed. Rage still filled him, but he had nothing left to keep fighting. "One day," he whispered, voice somewhere between a sob and a growl, "when I'm strong enough, _I will kill you."_

"Really," the older stoat replied idly.

They lay in darkness for a time, the older one chuckling softly to himself, still testing the blade and admiring it in the moonlight.

Eventually, they both drifted into sleep.

"

Their luck did not hold. Six days later, they had found nothing to eat since the bread they stole from the baker. Hunger gnawed at both of them, shortening already volatile tempers. This kind of fast was not uncommon for the pair. In fact, it was more the norm. They had endured much longer in the past. That did not however, make it any less unpleasant.

"Why are we this close to the city center?" the younger brother hissed, walking close beside his bother as they navigated down a busy street lined with shops and vendors. "There are too many soldiers!" In the city center, armed soldiers served as a police force. Two stood guard at every other street corner, one carrying a halberd with a vicious looking hook, the other a bow and arrows and a broadsword. Still more patrolled the streets in groups of four, ensuring peaceful and lawful conduct by all. Excepting a few of the merchants, every beast on the street was a stoat.

"Because all the food is here! Ever since they put the soldiers in this part of the city, all the merchants won't go anywhere else and the ones that will are either to dangerous or they already know us too well!" He fingered the meat cleaver hidden under his shirt. Ever since they acquired it, the older brother had kept the weapon tucked into his waistband, resulting in a number of accidents that had terrified him, to the delight of his younger sibling.

Both their stomachs growled loud enough to be audible over the noise of the street. The younger one felt as if his own had grown teeth and was trying to eat him from the inside out.

They walked on, searching for an opportune target. At first glance, the street vendors looked to be the easiest to rob, but the pair soon found that the merchants, being aware of the open nature of their trade, had all learned to watch their wares like hawks. They spotted the two street children from half a street away and warded them off with loud threats and brandished weapons. As the stoats passed, the vendors produced everything from sticks and rocks, to swords, to more...improvised weapons. One held a spiny fruit as if to throw it when the two passed. A hare on one street even had an elaborate and insanely powerful slingshot powered by some kind of stretching bands and attached to his wrist by a brace. The vendor shot freely, cackling like a fiend as his weapon left massive welts one the pair as they fled. The older one was still grumbling about this particular incident an hour later when they still had nothing to show for their trouble.

"Wait!" The older stoat thrust out an arm, stopping in his tracks. At the next street corner, one of the soldiers leaned against a brick storefront wall, arms folded over his chest, apparently sleeping while his partner gazed in another direction. Held loosely in his hand was an apple, missing several bites, but otherwise intact. They stared at the prize as hunger gnawed at them.

"I'll get it…" the older brother whispered, moving ahead and walking as normally as possible. When he was within a few yards of the soldier, he dashed forward, snatching the apple from the soldier's limp paw. The movement caught the attention of the second guard who stepped out to stop the youngin, snatching him by the wrist as he fled past.

"An' just where do you think you're goin'?" he said, gripping the small stoat tightly. Before the soldier could react, the boy whipped around with a snarl, yanked out the cleaver, and hacked at the arm holding him. The soldier cried out in pain and surprise and released the boy, who stumbled backward and then was gone, sprinting down the street ahead of his younger brother, who ran past the two soldiers, now both awake, without incident. "Damn little wretch!" the injured soldier shouted, holding his bleeding forearm. He dashed after them, followed more slowly by his dazed companion. "Stop Them! Thieves! Stop Them!"

This caught the attention of a patrol walking in the opposite direction. The two nimblest of the group, both holding bows, changed direction and broke into a run as they joined the pursuit, knocking arrows as they went.

The two stoats fled down the street at full tilt, but the soldiers were gaining. Weakened by hunger, the brothers were already exhausted. The older one turned a corner and caught sight of a church steeple at the next turn. "That way! Head for the church! They won't hurt us in a church!"

He ran on, legs and lungs burning. A few heartbeats later, his brother rounded the same corner, heaving as he struggled to keep up. Together they ran for their lives toward whatever sanctuary the church could offer. Halfway there, the older brother glanced over his shoulder to see his sibling a second or two behind. The soldiers had reached the corner and were now sprinting after their quarry. Only three for the soldiers remained, the two archers, and the injured one, sprinting down the street with his halberd ready and murder in his eyes.

The oldest brother reached the huge oak doors and looked back. His brother dashed in past him, the soldiers barley thirty yards behind. They both ran for the far end of the room, seeking any hiding place they could.

A door at the back of the room offered the best chance of escape. They slammed against it, tugging at the iron handle and pounding it with fists but with no result.

Suddenly, a voice spoke behind them. "Where to in such a hurry, young ones?" Both brothers spun to face the speaker, an elderly stoat in white priest's robes holding a long staff. The older brother snarled, brandishing the meat cleaver in front of him. The priest deftly rapped the boy on the wrist with the staff, causing him to drop the blade, then jabbed the boy sharply in the forehead. The older brother fell to the floor in an unconscious heap. The younger one broke for the door in terror, but the old priest swung his staff in an arc around his head and swept it through the boy's ankles, sending him sprawling on his belly, then stepped on one of his feet and planted the end of the pole between the fallen stoat's shoulder blades, immobilizing him. The boy struggled futilely, resembling a speared insect.

At that moment the three pursuing soldiers stormed in and abruptly came to a halt at the odd sight. The younger brother froze.

"Those two are commin' with us, Father," said the injured one, in as respectful a tone as he could manage.

"What crime have they committed, soldier?" the priest replied calmly.

"They are thieves. We chased them here from the market street."

"And what, pray tell, did they steal?"

"They- They took… my squadmate's lunch, Father." At this the other two burst out laughing.

"You mean to tell me that that little twit got the jump on both o' you, and ran off with your grub to boot?" The two archers continued to snicker uncontrollably, despite a hate filled glare from their companion.

The priest glanced back at the unconscious brother, seeing the partially eaten apple. "So, you three ran screaming for blood down three city blocks because two starving street children stole a half eaten apple?"

"The other one attacked me with that damn blade of his," the injured stoat pressed, holding up his bleeding arm.

"I see. This tiny wretch of a boy is indeed the most foul of criminals. Mortally wounding a mighty Treyshan warrior, and adding insult to injury by making off with his midday snack as well? These crimes are unforgivable. I am in your debt, for what courage it must require to chase valiantly after these hardened mercenaries. I sleep soundly in my bed knowing that such brave and honorable individuals stand alert at all hours, ready and able to protect me," he intoned sardonically, finishing with a bow.

The soldier's face now boiled with rage. "Outta the way, old one. They're coming with us."

"No. They are under my protection now, and they will be dealt with appropriately. You will not lay a hand on them."

"Last chance. Those two are mine."

Dropping his polite air, the priest took a step forward, releasing the boy at his feet, but also stepping in front of him. "And who is going to take them from me? You?" He said darkly. The priest made no sign of aggression other than to raise one eyebrow in a clear challenge.

The stoat weighed his options. His two companions were backing slowly towards the door, wanting no part in the contest. The old priest had stripped him of all credibility and now stood before a fully armed and armored soldier apparently unconcerned despite being armed with nothing more than a stick.

The priest reached back and used his staff to roll the apple closer, then bent down to retrieve it. "Go now. Take your property and leave. You may request orders for the arrest of these children for the injuries they have caused you if you so wish. I'm sure your squad sergeant will be ever so sympathetic. Until you arrive with such orders, they are mine."

The soldier fumed for an instant longer, then snatched the apple and stormed away. "Damn you, old prune. Damn you and burn!" he shouted as he hurled the apple into the street and turned out of sight. His companions quickly followed, casting furtive glances back as they left.

When they had left, the priest turned back to his captives. The younger stoat snapped out of his stillness and scrambled back in fear.

"Peace, young one. I won't hurt you. Well, not permanently," he amended with a glance at the older one, who still lay in a heap where he had fallen.

The young stoat's stomach rumbled audibly in the stone room. "Ah, of course. Food. And water also I imagine. Come with me." The priest walked over to the unconscious brother and, pulling the cord from the waist of his robes, proceeded to tie the older one's hands behind him. The priest then placed the fallen meat cleaver on the altar. "He strikes me as the uncooperative type, even when help is offered. Time to wake up, young one!" he said, slapping the boy's cheek in an irritating rhythm.

Slowly the older stoat began to wake. When his eyes focused on the priest's face however, he jolted awake and tried to stand and run, but, lacking the help of his arms, only succeeded in rolling onto his face and causing more pain to his injured head. An agonized moan escaped him.

The younger brother couldn't resist blowing a raspberry in his brother's direction. He received a prompt rap on the head with the staff for his trouble, just hard enough to be painful. The younger brother moved himself out of reach of the stick and sat glowering.

The priest rose and unlocked the door at the back of the room. He left, then reappeared a moment later with a loaf of bread and a clay pot of water.

"Where are your parents young ones?"

"Got none," the younger brother replied, as the older stoat still lay on the stone floor with his eyes screwed tightly shut against the pain in his head.

A look of sadness crossed the old priest's face. "I see," he said with a sigh. "Eat and drink your fill. You both look as if you need it. When you have finished, I will take you to Sister Vanessa."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Play Nice

_SMACK!_ The younger brother grit his teeth together as the switch bit into his back again. He heard the accompanying rapport as his brother, a few feet to the left, received a similar blow. It had become something of a contest between the two of them to see who could make less noise throughout the course of a whipping. A lengthy debate over the winner would ensue as soon as they were alone, invariably ending in some form of altercation. If they were unlucky, this scuffle would be discovered and they would receive the immediate opportunity for a rematch.

Sister Vanessa paused for a moment in her administration of justice. They could hear her pacing behind them as they waited on all fours for the punishment to continue. "No two children I have ever met managed to cause this much trouble in a single fortnight. I'm starting to wonder whether Father Mardus needs his head examined for believing that you two belong anywhere besides a prison camp or a gallows!"

"Sister Vanessa" had turned out to be the overseer of the city orphanage for boys. The sage old stoat woman had, upon seeing the still woozy older brother, given the Father a scolding that rivaled the priest's own speech to the soldiers. In dealing with children she was fair-minded and level headed, with a knack for digging the whole truth out of those involved in mischief with the disturbing ease of a mother who has raised a thousand children from infancy, which in effect, she had. She was lenient with mistakes and always helpful when a child came to her with concerns. The Sister was a kind and likeable saint of a creature when it came to children. Except of course, when she had to deal with rule breakers.

The first time she had caught the brothers fighting, when she returned from a storeroom with a fresh set of cloths for the boys, she had hauled them apart by the their ears and calmly explained that however they may have settled problems in the past, violence would not be an acceptable solution from that point onward. Ten minutes later, she ended the next fight with six raps of a yard-long switch that she carried like a scepter. Each boy received three blows, one between his ears and one on each of the paws that flew up to protect his stinging head.

Her policy when doling out punishment was very simple. Minor offenses were worth between one and five lashes, usually on the head, paws, or rump, and were administered on the spot. Disrespect or insults were worth one, depending on severity and her mood. The result was usually a surprised yelp from the perpetrator. Any actual profanity was automatically five on the back of the paw, although repeat offenders often received double. Fighting and pranking, if discovered, were each punishable by ten to twenty lashes for all involved. Each was made to bend down and touch his toes, awaiting a series of stinging blows on his rump. These were administered in quick, seemingly brutal succession, while the Sister frowned in disapproval. She then instructed each child to stand, gave him a pat on the head or even a hug if necessary and sent him cowering on his way.

Major offenses however, could run in excess of fifty, and were scheduled in the courtyard the following evening should such an incident arise. This allowed fear of impending punishment to build up appropriately. The offender would be made to kneel on all fours and would be struck across the back a certain number of times. Attempting to flee would result in an additional ten lashes being tacked on to the end.

These offenses included things like stealing food from the pantries and lighting other orphans on fire…

Upon arriving, the two had been optimistic. They had no idea what life would be here, and had been informed that they would always have enough to eat, as well as a warm place to sleep and kind grownups to keep them safe. That left, of course, the other orphans.

As in every situation where children must live together for long periods of time, the social structure was that of a wolf pack. The oldest and biggest children were at the top, along with any beast savvy enough to join them. The remainder of the forty or so children in the orphanage filled the remaining ranks down to the ones to small to do anything but be pushed around. About half the children were older than the two brothers.

For the first time in his life, the older brother was not the strongest. He hated the feeling. The younger stoat didn't fare much better since they had never had to live with more than just the two of them before. Both of them were quick to fight and slow to compromise, a consequence of competing with each other for so long. The brothers soon found themselves outcasts from the group. They found no friends among even those near the bottom of the social totem pole, since anyone who befriended them would have been guilty by association. The two became the favorite targets, a situation those at the bottom were all too keen to perpetuate in the interest of self preservation.

Although the brothers became the victims of every joke, game, or prank, the pair were all too ready to fight back. At times, they even enjoyed the challenge. However, the other orphans were smart enough never to make a move when Vanessa or one of the other sisters was watching. The brothers lacked this instinct, and suffered for it.

To her credit, Vanessa saw this to some extent and made a point of extracting the details of one particularly brutal incident, a game of "chase the outlaw." In most cases involving this game, the two were able to avoid capture. Their recent time on the streets gave them that advantage. Those times when they _were _caught, seldom ended well. In this particular game of "chase the outlaw" the pair had been cornered in a room that turned out to have only one door and no windows. They had been put into barrels and rolled down the stairs to the cellar, or "prison," and not been discovered until the following morning when they were heard banging on the locked door, having escaped the barrels sometime in the night.

That afternoon, the offenders were lined up before bedtime and given their punishments one at a time. Sister Shiva then gave a lengthy speech on the deplorable nature of bullying, and bid them good night.

The following day, the main attraction was a new game known as "pitch the snitch" (bodily into a latrine). Having learned the repercussions of "snitching" the pair told no one and did their best to clean themselves and hide the stench. They then began to plot their revenge.

Two days later, they cornered the inventor of "pitch the snitch" in the very room where they had been captured before. The rat was about their age, but smaller. By his size, the boy should have been near the bottom of the pack, but had found a niche as the mastermind of most of the children's games. They overpowered him, tied a rag around his snout to gag him, and tied their victim's forepaws to a crossbeam in the low ceiling. They tied his feet together for good measure. The older brother then produced a candle, which he lit using a stolen match.

The younger brother carefully shut the door, and turned back to the helpless rat. "We got chucked in a latrine because of you!" he spat. Being gagged, the wide eyed creature gave no response.

"So, here's what we're gonna do," the older sibling continued. "We're gonna burn you at the stake. We'll start with your toes, and work on up to your nose, till there's nothin' left!"

"Unless you want to spend a night in the latrine…" the younger one added gleefully.

The rat began franticly trying to say something through his gag.

"What's that?" the older stoat asked innocently. "I can't hear him, so I guess he doesn't care. Since we've got him tied up already, I guess we'll just burn him…" he finished, holding the flame up to the terrified child's whiskers, filling the air with an acrid stench. The rat uttered a muffled scream and soiled himself. "Oh, no need to worry, we're perfectly safe. No one can hear anything." The rat tried to scream again and thrashed, trying to get further away from the flame.

"No need for the latrine now," the younger stoat giggled as his older brother grasped their victims snout and touched the flame to the tip of his nose. The rat tried harder than ever to scream, and began to thrash even more franticly, now in pain as well as fear. Both brothers laughed at him as the older one held the flame in place.

But the younger one frowned, tugging at his brother's arm. "What are you doing, we weren't gonna kill 'im for real, just leave him here till he peed himself an' then make him go through the eatin' hall!"

The older brother threw down the candle and whirled to face his brother, eyes wild. "An' why shouldn't he feel some pain? We got thrown in a latrine! And stuffed in barrels! And locked in a cellar!"

"Yeah, but we can't _kill_ 'im! They'll kill _us!_ And—" He was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream. Whirling franticly around, the brothers found that their victim had wriggled free of his gag. The candle had fallen to the ground next to the rat's feet, and half his pant leg was now on fire.

He continued to scream, begging for help, from them, from anyone, as the flames crawled farther up his leg. The brothers backed into a corner in fear, huddled together, backs to the wall. Footsteps and shouting echoed down the hall outside. The rat's screams intensified.

The younger brother tried to run for the door but pulled up as it flew open, one of the sisters blocking their escape. The sister, a young stoat woman, screamed and fainted. The second sister through the door responded better. She blanched, but wasted no time in rushing to free the boy. She picked him up by the scruff and threw him ungraciously to the ground, before falling even less graciously on top of him, smothering the flames with her billowing robes.

The rat eventually stopped screaming and passed out from sheer terror. The scent and haze of smoke filled the air. The sister got up and examined the boy's wounds, then looked over and found the brothers, once again huddled in the corner, watching in fear. Her face darkened. "Whoever did this will have hell to pay and then some."

Sister Vanessa had of course been called immediately. The three children had simply been kept in the room, watched over by the second sister, and later the first when she came to. When more help arrived, the latter sister was sent away to recover. They carried the still unconscious rat off to be tended, but the brothers stayed in the room, still cowering in the same corner, guarded by three scowling stoat sisters who stood silently near the doorway.

To their surprise, the brothers were not taken directly to Vanessa, but eventually brought to a small room with a bed. A piece of bread and two glasses of water were placed on a corner table, and the door was shut and locked, leaving them with only the light of a small window placed too high on the wall for either of them to reach.

Hours later, as the light of the window began to fade, the door was unlocked loudly, and Sister Vanessa stepped calmly inside. She stood before the two stoat brothers who sat fidgeting on the bed. "Norvill will make a full recovery, except for a few burns on his nose. From the story he tells me, you two have a great deal of explaining to do." She gazed coldly down at them.

The elder brother scowled, kneading his hands furiously. "He earned it!"

Now the Sister lost her composure. "Earned it?! You two would-be _murderers _ tried to burn a fellow child alive!"

"We weren't gonna kill 'im," the younger brother piped up. "Just—"

"Well what did you expect to happen when you _lit_ him on _fire?!_ _That it would TICKLE?!"_ she shrieked, her voice become higher by the moment.

"They—"

"I don't care what they did! It does _not_ justify _murder_, let alone this kind of, of—" Suddenly she bit her lip, took a slow breath, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Sister Shiva was once again in control, but her eyes still blazed like Hellgates itself. She spoke softly. "You two will remain here until tomorrow afternoon, when you will each receive two hundred lashes. Until I decide otherwise, you will live here, and have no interactions with the other children. Your days will consist of chores and work, and you will eat only what you need to survive. I don't know how to help the two of you. _Good night._" She stormed out then, locking the door from the outside. Silence filled the room.

The younger brother spoke first. "This is your fault. If you hadn't tried to torture 'im—"

"Aw, shut up! You enjoyed watchin' 'im squirm just as much as I did!"

"I aint like you alright! You just like torturin' anyone who doesn't do what you say!"

"Quit talkin' like one a' these stinkin' nuns! You're just like me, an' don't even try arguin'!" he said, cutting off the younger brother before he could protest. "Just 'cause we hadn't burnt 'im yet didn't mean he wasn't scared out of 'is pants, but I didn't hear you complainin' then, huh? No, we're just alike, you an' me, only I'm bigger! So quit actin' like your better an' this is all my fault!"

They fell quiet again, and eventually fell asleep, sharing the one bed in the darkness of the room.

And now they found themselves here. _SMACK!_ The younger brother winced as he was hit again.

"You look like it hurts, little brother!" the older stoat hissed. "Is the little baby gonna' cr—" _SMACK!_

They had endured such punishment before, but never for _two hundred lashes_. At the moment they were both around fifty, with three times as many left to go, and Vanessa wasn't exactly being gentle, given the circumstances.

"What's the matter? Does it hurt too much to speak?"

They saw the shadow of her arm lift again in her afternoon shadow, but she paused when someone came running into the courtyard, panting.

"He's! Here! The Colonel!"

Both boys looked back in time to see the color drain from Sister Vanessa's face. "No," she breathed, voice small. Then she rushed past her fellow sister and back the way the other had come, her charges forgotten.

The other sister hesitated, then motioned for the two to follow. "Better come dears," she said. Her face betrayed very real fear. "After what happened the last time we tried to hide some of them…"

As they walked down the hallway, sounds of shouting came from the direction of the front entrance. Sister Shiva could be heard clearly above the rest. "I don't care if you have orders from the King himself! You'll not set one foot further into my orphanage! Not after the pain you've caused this place! You will not—" Her words ended abruptly and the commotion fell silent.

Several minutes later, the brothers were seated in the eating hall at the outer edge of a large semicircle around two stoats in sharp military uniform. Each carried a hat under his arm and a saber at his hip. One appeared to be slightly older than middle aged, with patches of gray just starting to appear in his chin hairs and on the tips of his ears. The insignia on his shoulder was different and more ornate than that of his companion. The second officer was younger, though still a fully matured adult. He stood about a step behind and to the side of the older stoat, who was obviously in charge. More soldiers, these in standard uniforms and armed with spears and shields, stood in the doorways, two facing outward from each. The Sisters were nowhere in sight, having been shuffled out after assembling the orphans here. They all waited apprehensively.

The older officer spoke first, speaking so the whole group could hear. "Hello children. I am Colonel Graff, and this is Captain Vetta. Today, we are going play a few games, and you will all have the opportunity to win prizes." The children glanced around at each other, still nervous, but exited now, wondering what would happen next. "We are going to find out which of you in here is the best fighter. I will choose two of you at a time, and those two will fight. You will have to fight cleanly. Blows to crotch, biting, intentionally striking an opponent in the eyes, and other low forms of cheating are not allowed. There are no other rules. One fighter will win when the other surrenders." Now the boys were exited.

"What about the prizes?" someone called out, followed by others as the excitement grew.

"Silence!" the colonel called, settling the room. He pulled a large cloth wrapped package from within his coat, and removed a scarlet object about the size of a pebble. "These are candied cherries. They are incredibly tasty, and quite expensive. The winner of each fight will get one. I understand you boys aren't allowed sweets very often? Also, when everyone has fought, I will choose the champion based on what I have seen. That person will win this," he said, pulling a sheathed dagger from his coat. The weapon was simple, with a brass knob for a pummel, and a simple bar of the same for a cross guard. The grip was wrapped in leather cord. He pulled it from its sheath, a snakeskin scabbard with rivets around the edge and capped in brass, to reveal a blade that had been polished until it resembled a mirror. The blade was a long triangle of steel. The weapon was about a foot long and largely unadorned, but seemed somehow more deadly than the sword the colonel carried at his hip. Now the boys were clamoring to volunteer. He sheathed the dagger and returned it to his coat.

"Everyone must remain seated who is not in a fight, or be removed and forbidden to participate!" the colonel roared, once again quieting the room. "Sergeant! Clear away these tables so they will have space." Four of the soldiers left the doors and did as they were told. Once finished, they returned to their posts and the colonel addressed the children again. "Who would like to go first? … Excellent. You, and you. If either of you wishes to surrender, simply shout 'uncle,' or, if you are unable to speak, tap the ground twice. The fight will end."

As the fights began, the captain retreated to the far wall, while the colonel allowed the orphans to form a full circle around him about twenty feet wide. Two boys would face off as the colonel held his saber between them. When he raised it, they were free to fight, wrestling, throwing punches, twisting limbs, and doing anything they could to cause each other pain. Those watching cheered and shouted in frenzied excitement. They circled the fights in a crowd two or three deep. Most fights ended when one boy managed to get an arm around the other's neck and strangle him into submission. A few turned out to be horribly mismatched, with one boy driving the other back under a hail of punches, until the victim finally cried out his surrender, and then limped away in shame.

Curiously, the Colonel seemed to spend as much time watching the onlookers as he did the combatants. After each fight, he would select two new children from the circle. Many times the boys were far from similar in size. Despite this, a few of the smaller children managed to hold out impressively. Most were eventually beaten back once the bigger boy managed to get a good hold of them and take advantage of superior strength. One of the underdogs did manage to win by latching onto the older boy's back with his legs and pressing his thumbs into the pressure points below the bigger one's ears.

The older brother worked his way to the inside of the circle, eager for his chance. The younger sibling followed, staying close. They watched the fights eagerly, but neither joined in the frantic cheering. When he was finally chosen, the older brother leapt forward and waited to see who he would fight. Colonel Graff considered the crowed for a moment, then selected one of the oldest boys. The brother's face fell, but he faced his opponent. He glared at the colonel, angry that he had been made the underdog. Colonel Graff stared back impassively. He raised his sword, and the fight began.

The brother rushed forward, punching as fast and hard as he could. At first, the older boy was driven back, but then he got a hold of one of the brother's arms and they fell to the ground grappling for control. The brother immediately found himself at a disadvantage beyond that of size. He had seldom had to fight an enemy bigger and stronger than he was. He suffered for it. They tussled for a full minute until, like so many fights before, the bigger boy came up on top. He had the smaller boy pinned facedown and was slowly twisting one of the brother's arms behind his back. As his face contorted with pain, the brother kicked furiously to get free, refusing to give in. At last, when it seemed as if his arm must surely break from the pressure, the brother cried out in rage and pain and uttered the word for surrender. "Uncle! Uncle, dammit, uncle!" The older boy released his captive and stood to receive his prize.

The older brother stood and stalked out of the circle, shoving his younger brother violently out of the way as he worked his way to the back of the crowd amid the laughter of those nearby. Watching this, the colonel frowned, though the corner of his mouth twitched as though he were amused by something. Raising his sword, the colonel chose his next participant. "You."

The younger brother stared back in confusion. He hadn't even wanted to join in. Out of those nearby, he was easily the least enthusiastic. He started to protest, but someone pushed him forward. "Good." Still with the same amused expression, the colonel chose the second boy, again, one of the older orphans, who stepped forward gleefully, expecting to win easily.

Well, it couldn't be any worse than fighting his brother, he thought, smiling. It might even be fun. Colonel Graff raised his sword, and the fight began.

Like his brother, the younger sibling attacked first, but he was used to being smaller. He tackled the older boy at the knees and they fell to the ground. He didn't give his opponent time to get a grip, but scrambled until he got to his enemy's back, and tried to replicate what one of the other boys had done, using the pressure points below the ears. This time, the bigger boy escaped the tactic easily, grabbing the younger sibling by the arm and yanking the smaller boy off.

The younger brother felt himself falling toward his back. If he was pinned like that, the fight would be over in seconds. He reacted without any thought, spitting into his enemy's face and following with a punch. The older boy recoiled, screaming in rage and echoed by the outcry from those watching. Before he could regain control, he found the younger brothers arm around his throat. This time the boy used the tactic that had worked for so many others and simply hooked an elbow around the bigger orphan's throat, locking the other elbow around his wrist. The pair rolled and struggled but the bigger boy couldn't escape, and eventually ran out of air. He slapped the ground, desperate to breath.

Springing to his feet, the younger brother shouted in triumph. The older boy stood as well, gasping. The crowd grumbled and booed in protest.

"He cheated!" the boy rasped, starting forward to teach the little brat a lesson. He was stopped by the colonel's saber blade at his throat. The boy stopped in his tracks.

"You lost. You may return to your place."

"But he cheated!"

The colonel pressed the blade harder against the boy's neck, making him gulp. The orphan retreated, still angry, but not willing to oppose the armed grownup. All the onlookers grumbled in displeasure, glaring at the younger brother, who still stood inside the circle, now unsure how he would be able to leave it.

"I saw no foul play," the colonel continued, with the same amused expression. "But, since there is some controversy, he will fight another round." He glanced around the circle once more, until he found the one he was looking for. "You."

The older brother had worked his way back to the front when his sibling was chosen. He stood glaring at the younger brother with more wrath than any of the other spectators. Now, the older brother smiled, and stepped forward.

If they had been the same age and size, it might have been a fair fight, but this was not the case. He had never beaten his older brother, never landed a blow that went unanswered. He knew the older sibling would never quit, even if the younger brother did manage to gain the upper hand, would never allow himself to lose to his inferior. They knew all of each other's tricks, but that would be no help. It would only prolong things.

The younger sibling knew he would lose, but wasn't scared. The situation was disturbingly familiar. The colonel raised his sword, and the fight began. This time, Colonel Graff watched with interest. The two circled warily.

The younger brother attacked first this time, remembering their fight in the alley, and tried to tackle the older one. He wouldn't stand a chance if he tried to fistfight. The older brother was ready, and rolled with the blow. He would have come out on top, but the younger brother disentangled before they hit the ground and grabbed hold of one of his brother's feet, twisting it to try and cause some kind of injury to the ankle or knee. He would lose, but his older brother would pay dearly for it!

Before the older brother could grab him and retaliate, the younger stoat leapt back and waited, knowing he would not be able to win in a wrestling match either. That didn't leave many options. How many times would this work? All this was unconscious as the younger brother circled, completely absorbed in the fight.

As the older sibling stood, his hurt ankle gave out and he stumbled.

The younger brother couldn't help but smile at his brother's pain.

The older brother stood, limping more carefully on his injured foot. Now he was furious. He was being embarrassed, in front of all of them, _again!_ And there was his brother, smirking at him, circling just out of reach.

_Might as well try it again, _the younger sibling thought, and charge in a second time. He had meant to go for the same ankle and try to do even more damage, but this time the older one kicked his feet out and tried to land on top of the younger stoat. Now began the wrestling match the younger brother had sought to avoid.

They rolled, punching and grappled until, to his own surprise, the younger brother managed to pin his older brother down on his back. The injured ankle had prevented the older sibling from getting enough leverage out of his bad leg to roll his brother over. The younger stoat punched his brother as hard as he could in the face, feeling his fist connect, hard. He hit him two more times before the older brother grabbed hold of his arm and, gritting his teeth through the pain through the pain in his ankle, reversed their positions.

Now he straddled the younger brother, pinning him with his weight and holding him by the throat with one arm, the other raised back in a fist. He paused, savoring the moment and the fear in his younger brother's eyes now that he knew he was in control. He struck once, viciously, then again as the crowd cheered for blood. He continued to pummel the smaller boy, angrier than he had ever been before, feeding off the cheers that accompanied every blow.

As the younger brother fought for his life, struggling to protect his head, his world shrank to the two of them and he forgot about their surroundings entirely. The thought of surrender never crossed his mind. When had it ever helped before? All his attention focused on finding a way out, a way to escape, to get free! And still the blows continued.

Out of the corner of his eye, a different kind of movement caught the younger brother's attention. A figure standing inside the circle knelt, and tossed something in his direction that glinted as it skittered across the ground. Grasping for it, the younger stoat felt a wrapped handle and stabbed instinctively.

The knife blade sank into his brother's abdomen as easily as into warm butter.

The older sibling froze in shock, staring down at the dagger. For a moment the entire hall went silent. Then the brothers locked eyes, and the older one tightened his already raised fist. Panicking, the young stoat pulled the knife free stabbed again, blood running from the wound and onto the knife and his arm soaking them both. Again the older brother faltered and the younger stoat stabbed him a third time. The older sibling gasped, and the fist began to fall, sinking toward his side.

The younger stoat smiled. "_My turn_."

Then he rolled, taking control again and raised the knife to stab his brother again. This time he sank the knife into his brother's chest, and yanked it out to stab again, and again, relishing his feeling of power, of revenge! The older brother struggled feebly, but he could do nothing. As the younger stoat brought the knife down again, the older brother convulsed, gagging and spewing blood as he battled to breath. He clutched at the knife in his chest and their eyes locked. The older brother fell back to the ground, his gaze suddenly calm. He smirked faintly and spoke, his last breath bubbling up in an unintelligible gurgle through the blood that pooled in his throat and overflowed from the corners of his mouth. But the younger stoat could still read the words on his brother's blood soaked lips. _Told you, brother. Just like me._

The younger stoat froze as his sibling convulsed again, spraying more blood and continuing to writhe. After just a few more convulsions, he started to slow. As he sank back to the ground, his head rolled to one side. Blood continued to pour out of him, pooling on the ground as he blinked once last time, and stopped. His face relaxed, eyes fixed on oblivion.

The younger brother sprang back as if released from a trance, and stared down at his brother, mind blank.

Behind him, someone chuckled, but the young stoat didn't notice. The colonel strode past him and plucked the dagger out of the older stoat's chest. He pulled a water skin from his belt and wet the blade and handle. Returning this, he removed a cloth and cleaned the knife. Walking back to the youngin, he reached down and grasped the his hand, turning it palm up and pressing the dagger into it. "I believe this belongs to you," he said calmly. The young stoat barely noticed.

As he gazed at his brother, now devoid of his usual rage, or contempt, his only thought was _Now what?_

"I think you will do nicely," the colonel said, putting a hand on the young boy's shoulder.

_Told you, brother._

The colonel gently but firmly pulled the boy away. The young stoat pulled his eyes away from his brother as they walked toward the door to the outside. The other boys parted to let them through, watching in stunned silence. When they reached the door, the two soldiers walked out ahead of them. The captain and remaining soldiers followed behind in double file, leaving the body.

_Just like me_

As they filed down the hall, a door burst open behind them. Sister Vanessa stormed out into the hall, shrieking in fury, looking decades older. One side of her face was a single darkening bruise.

"The ones you take never come back! How many children have died at your hands, _Colonel!_" Two more of the sisters came through the door and struggled to restrain her, faces tear streaked as they watched the group leave.

"Killer! Murderer!" she screamed after them. "_Murderer!_"

_Told you, brother. Just like me. _

"

"

*the present day*

"

"

In Redwall Abbey, Recorder Gregory was awakened by the small bell in the corner of his gatehouse quarters. It rattled insistently, demanding that he wake. He rose, grumbling, from the ancient armchair he slept in and began making his way to the door. On his way, he lit a torch from the candle in the wall bracket over his writing desk. There were still two hours before dawn, so who would possibly be knocking now?

The bell was an ingenious little design of his own making, one that he now cursed quite fervently, which alerted him when someone at the main gate required his assistance. All they need do was pull a cord and the elderly recorder would be alerted by the sound of the bell.

He reached the gate and opened a slot that allowed him to peer outward. Gregory held up a torch, casting a rectangle of light onto the lone traveler. The beast carried a sturdy looking walking stick and wore a hood that concealed his face.

"Hello, friend. What brings you to Redwall at this time of the morning?"

"I'm in need of a healer. I was told yesterday that I could find a beast here by the name of Carlotta."

"Aye, that you will. What ails you?"

"A rather serious leg wound. It has become infected."

"I see. Well, if you'll just show me your face for starters."

"That does seem to be your custom in these parts," the traveler said, removing his hood.

"Well, now. What does a vermin want at Redwall?"

"I believe I've answered that question. I was told that Carlotta was the only healer in these parts capable of helping me."

Gregory hesitated. "We at Redwall are not the type to turn a beast away before he has given us a good reason to mistrust him, but if you'll pardon me for sayin', your appearance isn't exactly saint like. I'll help you. Mark my words though, stoat. Try anything, and there will be a reckoning. We are peaceful creatures here, but we can defend ourselves."

With that, Gregory opened the gate enough to allow the traveler in. The stoat limped forward painfully, each step leaning on his stick with both hands. His gait was clumsy, as if he could barely move one of his legs, but his face showed no sign of pain.

When they finally made it to the gatehouse, Gregory held the door open as the stoat limped inside. "Now, let's have a look at your injury," Gregory said, taking a moment to examine the stranger properly in the better light of the gatehouse.

Wordlessly, the stoat complied, pulling his cloak aside to reveal one leg, badly swollen and wrapped in soiled, discolored bandages. The stranger's face was carefully neutral, but faint tremors racked his body, and his hands shook. His face was gaunt, and drenched in sweat, despite the cool night air. The sight removed the recorder's last doubts that the beast honestly needed help. "I was going to have you stay here until sunup, but seeing your condition, I think I'll take you up to Carlotta right now. She won't be happy. I'll help you walk, you look dead on your feet."

The stoat waved him off. "I can walk." As he stepped forward, his cloak shifted to reveal a worn, brass pummeled dagger on one hip.

"Alright, suit yourself," He said, turning to open the door again. "I'll ask ye to leave that blade here in the gatehouse, though."

"No."

Gregory paused. "Pardon?"

"No. I'll be keeping my blade."

The gatekeeper frowned. "See here, now. Redwall is a peaceful place. I'll not have you running about armed. I promise you won't need weapons within these walls."

The stoat was unmoved. "I'll be keeping my blade."

The old squirrel bit his lip, hesitating a moment. "Do you have any other weapons?"

"No."

Gregory decided to let the issue drop. "Oh, very well. You haven't tried to gut me yet, so that's got to count for something."

He held the door again as the stoat limped forward. The gatekeeper realized with some awe that the beast must have traveled all the way to Redwall in this condition.

As they started towards the abbey, Gregory spoke again. "I don't believe I got your name, friend."

The stoat took a moment to answer. He seemed lost in thought. "Domovoi," he said finally. "Call me Domovoi."


	4. Chapter 4

"Well Dom, let's get you inside the abbey building, then upstairs to the infirmary," the old squirrel said, taking the lead. "'I suppose I'd better get Ranno up as well," he continued, muttering to himself. "He's the only one she'll listen to sometimes and I imagine she'll be in a foul mood at this hour."

Soon, they reached the heavy oak doors of the main abbey building. Gregory pulled up on a latch, and swung one of the doors open. Rather than step inside, the stoat hesitated. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the dark interior. Pausing, the recorder looked back with some impatience. "Well? Come on then."

The stoat stepped warily inside, eyes darting around the large hall. Gregory's torch offered just enough light to make out a long table running almost the entire length of the room. Around it sat an assortment of stools, benches, and chairs. At the head of the table, opposite the door, sat an enormous, high-backed chair that seemed as ancient as the stones of the abbey. On the far wall hung a tapestry of a mouse in full armor, holding a sword and a shield as vermin fled from him in every direction. The mouse seemed to gaze down kindly, as if he were the guardian of this great hall. Above the tapestry, a sword and shield, exactly like those in the tapestry, gleamed in the faint firelight. The shield was inscribed with a large letter "M." To the left of the tapestry, a spiral staircase led downward. An identical one to the right led upward. The left wall of the room was dominated by a set of tall stained glass windows.

As the crossed they room, the stoat remained agitated. He limped forward, but kept glancing around and behind as if he expected to be ambushed. When they reached the stairs on the right, he stepped up with his good leg, then lifted his bad one up to meet it. Repeating this process, he ascended the steep spiral staircase to the abbey's second level. Gregory followed behind.

The second level of the abbey was comprised of a long hall with doors on either side. "These are the dormitories. We use the one at the end as an infirmary," Gregory explained as he emerged up the stairs behind the stoat and took the lead once more. The old squirrel stopped at the fifth door on the right and knocked sharply. The door was opened by a bleary eyed female otter. "Gregory?" she said sleepily. "W' you want? 'S the mi'l o' th' night." Seeing Domovoi, she started, becoming suddenly more alert. Frowning, she said to Gregory "Hang on now, who's this?"

"Elena, dear, sorry to wake you. I found him at the main gate. He's in pretty rough condition so I decided to get him to Carlotta right away. Would you mind waking Ranno for me?"

"Oh dear… Wait right there. I'll get him."

A moment later a second otter appeared at the door. This one was a male, and seemed even less awake than his mate had. "Th's be'r b' g'd Greg… what'd y' say you needed?" he mumbled, pawing at his eyes. When he looked up, he stopped with his head cocked to one side as he examined Domovoi. After taking a long moment to process the scene, Ranno sighed, and looked back at the recorder. "You mad, Greg? Carlotta will 'ave our ears for this. Wakin' her up in the middle o' the night, to help a vermin? Well, at least today will be interesting." Yawning, the big otter stepped out into the hallway and quietly shut the door behind him. "You get him to the infirmary, I'll get Carlotta. I assume that's why you woke me?"

"Well…"

Ranno started down the hall, chuckling as he went. Dom and Gregory followed. When the small group reached the end of the hall, Gregory led the stoat into the last room on the left. Ranno stopped at the door on the right, took a deep breath and knocked.

The infirmary was sparsely furnished. It contained a cabinet against one corner, and two beds with crisp sheets. There was a paned window in the far wall and a hearth opposite the beds. A small bedside table between the beds held an unlit candle. A rocking chair was positioned in on the other side of the window from the cabinet. Curiously, the cabinet sported a large padlock. Gregory set the torch in a wall bracket and proceeded to move around the room lighting candles from one he picked up and lit from the torch.

Across the hall, an elderly female voice barked "Who is it, and what do you possibly want at this hour?"

"Sorry to wake you, but there's a beast here who needs your help," Ranno called back through the closed door.

It opened to reveal a hunched old mouse dressed in a nightgown and holding a gnarled cane. "You will be. Now where is Gregory? I know he's here somewhere."

Carlotta hobbled across the hall, still venting loudly. "Gregory, I warned you! 'One more time,' I said, and you—" She stopped mid sentence when she saw Domovoi. "Ranno, dear?" she said coldly, "Why is there a _stoat_ in my infirmary?"

Ranno gulped. "He's hurt bad. He—"

Carlotta cut him off. "Then why would you wake me up to undo the work some goodbeast started?"

"Carlotta!" Gregory burst out.

"_Silence. _I will deal with you later, recorder. All that history and you're still a fool. You of all beasts should know the track record for vermin at Redwall Abbey. Did you even take his weapons?"

Gregory spluttered and backed up a step. Carlotta's eyes blazed.

"Come on Carlotta," Ranno chided. "We can't turn him away for something he hasn't done yet."

"Oh, but he has, you fool! We may not be acquainted with him, but there is blood on every vermin's paws!"

"Come now, he can't hurt anyone in his condition. Besides, I knew you'd be worried, so I came along to keep an eye on him," Ranno said, trying to appease her.

"Was that before or after this hopeless idiot led him all the way to the dormitories?"She received no answer. "However, you make a good point. This _is _Redwall. Every beast, however undeserving, gets a chance until he loses it. I will help him. But he will stay locked in here until I say otherwise. If he does leave, you will guard him, Ranno, and his deeds will be on your head. Now. Let's have a look, shall we?"

She approached the stoat, who took a step back, face still impassive, eyes darting.

"What's the matter, vermin? Scared of a frail old mouse? Sit there on the bed so I can take a look. Give your cloak to Gregory."

Domovoi complied, handing his cloak to the recorder. He then took a stiff step to the nearest bed and sat down awkwardly. He removed the pack that had been hidden under his cloak until now and set it on the stone floor. Then, laying the staff across his lap, he heaved his injured leg onto the bed and sat, waiting.

"Gregory, take his blade," Corlotta added with a pointed glare at the squirrel.

The stoat gripped the hilt of his dagger protectively, but made no other move, waiting.

"Let me remind you," the old mouse said with an irritable sniff, "That you came to us for help. You will abide by our rules."

Before Domovoi could respond, a new voice at the door made them all start. The voice was sweet and young. "Who are you fussing at, Granny? You're starting to sound your age." An adolescent mouse lass stepped through the door, still blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Nell?" Carlotta said irritably. "I thought I told you to go back to sleep."

"You did. Now who's—" Her eyes widened. "Oh my, how did you do that?"

"It's not going to matter if he doesn't give up his weapons," Carlotta spat, turning back to the stoat.

Dovovoi didn't move.

Nell sighed. "Oh, stop being difficult, all of you. Look, mister stoat, no one's going to attack you here. Why don't you just put the knife in your pack? That way it'll still be close by, if that makes you feel any better, and you can keep an eye on it so no one messes with it. Alright?"

Slowly, the stoat drew the dagger, moving cautiously, eyes darting around the room. The blade was a simple straight triangle of steel, scratched and pitted, with a notch in the blade near the hilt, but lethally sharp. He bent carefully and stowed the weapon in a fold of his pack, then straightened, waiting once again.

"There," Nell said cheerfully. "Everybody all better?" Carlotta scowled, but didn't protest. "Good. What do you need, Gran?"

"Water and fresh bandages for starters," Carlotta said. "Start a fire, and put the water on to boil." She moved forward and started to unwrap the bandage. The stoat tensed and his breathing quickened as she removed the last of the filthy cloth. His entire upper leg was swollen to twice its normal size. The swelling had caused what had been a small wound to spread open into a gaping, ragged crater in the beast's leg. The edges were a blazing red. It oozed a mixture of blood and fluids, but not enough to be immediately life threatening.

The stoat didn't look at his injury, but kept his gaze fixed on Carlotta.

"How were you hurt?" She asked. Her voice was flat and business like.

"A thief on the path tried to rob me. He managed to stab me in the leg."

The elderly mouse considered him for a moment, then said calmly, "Listen very carefully vermin. Do you know the difference between a lying rat and a lying mole-babe?" Domovoi didn't answer, so she continued. "There isn't one. So choose your next words carefully."

Domovoi stared back blankly for a long moment. "I was… a soldier. I helped fight a group of mercenaries in southern Thalkar," he said finally. "One of them stabbed me in the leg with a spear." Carlotta frowned, considering.

"Thalkar?" Ranno repeated, confused. "Where is that?"

"Thalkar," Gregory muttered, eyes closed as he tried to recall the information.

"Thalkar is a peninsula most of a season's journey east of here." Carlotta said without turning around.

Ranno knit his brow. "How did you pick up that wound in some place a season away, and then get all the way to Redwall with a lame leg?"

"The wound was not as serious at the time."

Carlotta continued to stare at him, eyes hard. "Then why are you here, and not there? What brings you all the way to Redwall? Surely there are healers there?"

Again, the stoat didn't answer immediately. "I'm running." He said finally.

"From what?"

"From…" He hesitated, glancing around as if debating how much to say. "Blood… I … don't want to… fight… anymore." The words were forced, as if he found them painful.

Nell was the first to speak. Then what are you holdin' on so tight to that dagger for? Haven't you heard of Redwall? We're all peaceful creatures here."

"Old— old habits, I suppose."

Gregory, Nell, and Ranno all smiled.

"Well, it sounds as if you've come to the right place, friend," the recorder said.

Carlotta merely scowled. "Why the sudden change of heart, vermin?"

"The others…would have killed me. I… am not well. Weakness is not tolerated."

The old mouse still looked skeptical, but she didn't comment. Returning to her work, she asked, "Did the blade that did this have any rust? And have you had strange muscle spasms recently?"

"I don't remember the blade. But I've noticed muscle spasms. My jaw is tight."

"Hmmm. That'll be Lockjaw setting in. The infection is a mess, but treatable. There is only so much I can do for Tetanus, though. We shall see."

Carlotta then proceeded to clean the wound as soon as the water on the hearth boiled. Next, she dripped a solution of silver salts from the cabinet over the open part of the injury. Finally, and to the confusion of those watching, she packed the wound with sugar and wrapped the entire leg snuggly in new bandages. Domovoi never so much as flinched, maintaining his same alert, but neutral, expression. When she finished, there was still a full hour before dawn.

"How is sugar gonna fix an infection?" Ranno asked puzzled.

"As best I can tell, it dries the wound enough to kill off the sickness in the tissue. If this doesn't work, we'll try maggots next," She replied, smiling evilly. "Now leave, all of you. Get out of my infirmary. Nell, you may as well go down and start helping Sister Gretchen with breakfast. She should be up soon anyway." Carlotta then began to bustle them all out the door.

Ranno refused to budge. "Give me your word you won't kill him."

Carlotta sighed. "I won't lay a hand on him, Ranno dear. Unless he needs a lesson. Now be gone!"

Ranno cast one more glance at the stoat, then turned and left. "I'll bring some breakfast up later," he called over one shoulder.

When they were all gone, Carlotta pulled the door shut and crossed the room to the rocking chair. She took out her knitting and stared over her work at Domovoi. Rather than lay down, he sat with his back against the headboard as he had in the tavern, and gazed back unflinchingly.

"Tread carefully vermin." She said quietly. "You may fool every other beast in this abbey, but you will put nothing past me."

The stoat returned her stare with the same impassive face he had worn since arriving. Slowly, he inclined his head in acknowledgement. As she worked, the old mouse hummed peacefully.


	5. Chapter 5

Authors note:

Many thanks to Free Thought for several editing suggestions and a helpful piece of information. These have been taken and utilized.

"

"

"

The stoat spent almost a week in the infirmary.

When dawn arrived, and sunlight began creeping through the window, Carlotta put away her knitting and opened the cabinet again. She removed a small bowl, into which she measured amounts of various herbs and powders. She then filled the small pot over the hearth with water from a clay pitcher and poured the contents of the little bowl into it. Carlotta stirred this a few times with a wooden spoon and left it to boil.

She then left the infirmary, offering no explanation, and locked the door behind her. She returned twenty minutes later wearing a simple linen dress and proceeded to reorganize the cabinet until the kettle boiled. Carlotta pulled a ladle and a mug from the cabinet, which seemed to hold anything and everything, poured half a mug of the brew, then topped it off with water from the pitcher to cool it. She crossed the room and offered the cup to Domovoi, who took it, but only held it suspiciously. The drink had a bitter, metallic smell.

When the stoat still did nothing, Carlotta rapped her cane against the stone floor in bitter irritation. "In case you haven't noticed, vermin, you are at death's door. Much as I would like to open it and boot you inside, I have given my word that I will not. If you refuse my help, it won't matter. Your choice."

Carlotta turned to leave, but just as she reached the door, Ranno entered with a large plate of food. "Good! You're alive! I brought you up some breakfast, seein' as you won't be goin' anywhere on that leg for awhile." Ranno stepped over and set the plate on the edge of the bed.

"Lock the door when you leave him, Ranno dear," Carlotta called back as she left.

Ranno's sighed in exasperation. "Carlotta, y' gotta' stop this. He's not a prisoner. This is Redwall, and at Redwall, we treat beasts fairly. Why would I lock 'im up? It's not like he can go anywhere on that leg, let alone hurt anyone."

"If you choose to argue with me, at least do so intelligently. He is not a complete invalid. If he made it all the way to Redwall on that leg, he can get around just fine. Besides, as you are so keen to point out, this is Redwall. We are not warriors. No one but old Colonel Stag goes armed. We are peaceful creatures unaccustomed to violence. And what if he met a dibbun?" She sighed. "Speaking of the dibbuns… if you must have another reason, it won't just keep him in, it'll keep them out. You seem to have taken a liking to this one, and I think you'll agree, a locked door is kinder. Goodness knows how we'll contain them." She hobbled away, looking tired.

Ranno bit his lip, then closed the door. "Y'll have to forgive Carlotta. She has a point though. We already caught three of 'em commin' up the stairs to pay y' a visit this mornin' an' we still can't find Terrence. Little molebabe's too smart for his own good. He'll get the paddlin' of his life for sure this time," Ranno said with a chuckle. Looking back at Domovoi, he grimaced. "You look like hell, mate. Whatever she gave you, drink it, then eat some food."

The stoat eyed the mug for a moment, then, seeming to come to a decision, downed it in one long draft. Though his outward expression showed no discomfort, the stoat's hand trembled as he placed the cup on the bedside table. His fur was matted with sweat and he was feverish, with eyes so bloodshot they seemed red. This, along with his scar, gave him a truly demonic appearance.

Turning his gaze to Ranno, the stoat asked in a surprisingly steady voice for his condition, "Why do you trust me?"

"Well," Ranno said, scratching his chin, "you haven't given me any reason not to. We don't treat a beast like an enemy till he makes himself one. I have trouble thinkin' you'd be much of a bandit with only that knife."

"Carlotta seems to disagree with you."

Ranno sighed, and walked over to flop down in the rocking chair. "Bit of a sad story, that. Carlotta's had it in for every vermin in Mossflower since… Well, you saw Nell earlier? That's her granddaughter. Nell's mother, Teresa, died right after Nell was born. They had a little cottage in Mossflower, but a band of vermin robbed the place and burned it down. There wasn't even much there to steal. Holt, Nell's father, was out getting food. He came back and found the place burnt to smithers. Teresa managed to stow little Nell in the root cellar and hide the door, but… they cut her down, and left her to burn with the house. Holt found his daughter alive, but Teresa… He took Nell and came straight to Redwall. Carlotta was his mother and only too happy to see her granddaughter again, but Holt was furious, and looking for blood.

There was a Long Patrol passing by Redwall the same day, and of course when they heard, they set off after the murdering scum like demons outta Hellgates bent for slaughter, not something I'd like to be on the wrong end of. Holt went with them. He would have been the Redwall Champion if he hadn't chosen to live in Mossflower with Teresa. Carlotta told him to stay, but he wouldn't hear of it. Nell was safe with her grandmother, and the vermin who killed his mate were still within his reach, so he set off with the hares for revenge. When they finally caught up with the vermin, the bandits had met with another group. Holt and the hares ended up fighting a band of almost thirty vermin, instead of a dozen, but even outnumberin' 'em two to one, vermin are no match for an entire Long Patrol. They made short work of the bastards, but in the fightin', Holt took an arrow in the gut. He bled out before they could get him back to Redwall. Probably nothin' they coulda' done anyhow.

Carlotta kept Nell and raised her, and tried to teach her what she could about healin'. The lass learns fast, too. But, Carlotta never quite recovered. It doesn't show most o' the time, but she's 'ad a beef with all vermin ever since.

That, an' there's stories the old ones mention, though they never tell, so I don't think that's the only reason she hates vermin. I wouldn't know. I've known her all my life, but she's the second oldest creature in this abbey, so her past is a mystery to anyone but the old folks who knew it when they were young.

Like I said, you'll have to forgive 'er if she's a bit cross with ya'. Just so ya' know. Don't let her know I told you, or she'll skin me alive." Ranno finished the tale looking somber, and sat with his elbows on his knees for a moment. "And it's not as if you lot have much of a track record for being kind and helpful. Whenever there's trouble, vermin always seem to be behind it," he added soberly. "In fact, you may be the first vermin I've ever heard of who tried to hang up his sword, 'cept for one or two in some 'o the old history books."

"I see." Domovoi contemplated the food Ranno had brought and eventually chose to bite into an apple.

After a few moments to let the newcomer eat, Ranno spoke again, "So, how did—" Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off as the door opened and two new faces entered.

The first was a spry but elderly hare who stepped into the room with an upright and very military gait. He wore a saber at his hip and a crisply pressed blue tunic trimmed at the cuffs and hem in gold thread. A collection of medals decorated the front of his uniform. His fur was ragged, but still well kempt, and several old battle scars crisscrossed his forepaws, head, and ears, and presumably the rest of him. The hare stepped to one side to hold the door as a much younger, perhaps middle-aged, mouse in a faded green habit entered behind him.

"Ah, you must be Domovoi!" the mouse said, stepping closer and extending a hand in welcome. "Gregory told me about your condition. I'm Glad you found us," he continued, smiling warmly. As Domovoi reached out and awkwardly clasped the proffered hand, the mouse spoke again. "I am Frederic, Abbot of Redwall. Welcome. I see you've met Ranno, and of course Carlotta. This Long Patrol Colonel Basil Stag, retired, named for an ancestor of his."

"Never mind the pedigree, the name is mine now," the hare said stiffly, stepping forward and replacing the abbot, who backed away looking worried. "As the abbot says, I am Colonel Basil Stag. I'm inclined to get some answers out of you before we trust you to walk free in an abbey full of dibbuns and peaceful creatures, so I'm going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer promptly and truthfully, or I'll flay your yellow hide on the spot and kick your sorry maggot riddled carcass from here to Southsward and back again, Redwall law or no! Carlotta's not the only one here who can spot a bloody liar in the act. So, first question: How were you injured? That's no nettle prick. Some beast with a mind to kill ya' came close enough to spit on ya' grave. Who?"

The stoat didn't seem remotely intimidated. He answered calmly, looking the hare in the eye as he spoke. "As I told Carlotta, I helped fight a group of mercenaries in southern Thalkar. One of them caught me in the leg with a spear."

"So you're a military beast? A soldier? Then how come you're here? Are ya' the same kind of sniveling coward as most vermin? A bloody deserter?"

"I had no choice. My… comrades… would have killed me. Weakness is not tolerated."

"Couldn't cut the mustard then, wot?" The hare sniffed derisively. "Sounds typical of a vermin hoard. Where are you from then?"

"I was born in Treysha."

"And what business did you have in this Thalkar place?"

"Orders. We were…soldiers. We were told to eliminate a group mercenaries. So we did. "

"Alright. So what brings you to Redwall?"

"As I traveled, my wound became infected. I found a tavern keeper who told me Carlotta could help."

"And the others tell me you've had change of heart, wot? Had enough brawlin and lookin' ta hang up the ol' sword? Bah! A likely story, that's wot I say. I've got my eye on you, gimpy, and if you put one toe out of line—"

Abbot Dammon placed a hand on the hare's shoulder. "That will do Basil. I think it's best if you remain here, Domovoi, at least until you've healed enough to get around better. Ranno will help Carlotta and Nell with whatever you need until Carlotta says you're healthy enough to leave the infirmary."

With that, the abbot took his leave of the place, followed by the still-frowning hare.

And so, the next few days became a routine of excruciating boredom. The stoat was told to remain in bed, and to move his injured leg as little as possible. Twice a day, Carlotta or Nell removed the bandages on his leg and cleaned the wound, before repacking it with a fresh dose of the peculiar treatment and wrapping it in fresh bandages. The stoat would then be instructed to drink another cup of Carlotta's medicine and as much water as he would tolerate. This was to keep him hydrated, Nell explained, in order to replace the fluids he lost from sweat and his wound. With the combination of the drying medicine and pressure from the bandages, the swelling in his leg began to decrease rapidly, though the fever causing him to sweat so profusely refused to break.

The first day passed in stiff silence. Most of the time, Domovoi was left alone in the locked room. At each meal, Ranno brought a plate of food up to the infirmary and tried to strike up a conversation, but the stoat refused to be drawn out of his musing. He answered every question with short answers, getting to the point and refusing to elaborate or give away any personal details or further information about his past. Though Ranno never saw the stoat eat more than a few mouthfuls, the plate was always empty the next time the otter arrived.

Domovoi always seemed startled whenever someone entered the room. He wasn't threatening, but he kept his staff across his lap, and clutched it until the blood left his knuckles when anybeast approached him. Stranger still, despite his unrest, he never seemed to move from his position sitting against the headboard of the infirmary bed. Ranno wondered aloud once if the stoat had shifted so much as a muscle in his time since entering the infirmary.

By the end of the second day, the swelling had gone down by at least half. That evening, Carlotta brought a wooden bucket of warm water and several large rags, telling him to wash up as best he could. This was added to the daily routine.

The longer he stayed motionless, the more agitated the stoat became. By the third day, he had grown so jumpy that he actually flinched every time somebeast spoke too suddenly. His fingers drummed along the wooden staff in quick rhythms that matched the fevered way his eyes darted around the room. When Nell commented on his mood, the stoat responded only with his usual stone faced silence. However, he ceased his tapping and instead gripped the staff like he meant to strangle it. The stoat's eyes still showed his unrest. Concerned, Nell returned later with something she was sure would help keep him occupied.

It was a circular cork wood target and a set of three wooden darts. Each dart had an iron point and three paper fins. The target was divided into different colored sections like thin pie slices. Three concentric rings further divided the target, with two very close to the center forming a kind of double bull's-eye. Even though Domovoi still said nothing, he at least looked curious. Nell hung the target on the wall across from the foot of the bed with a small pin set into a crack between two of the stones, and left feeling quite pleased with herself. She had of course, neglected to realize that the stoat would have no way to retrieve the darts each time he threw them without getting up, as he had been instructed not to do. After being informed of this by several amused Redwallers when she told them of her idea, she returned once more in quite a fuss.

Rather than finding him looking dejectedly at three darts stuck in the target and out of reach however, she found that he had solved the problem himself. The stoat had made a long string, most likely from loose threads in either his tunic or the bed sheet. He had tied this to the back of one of the darts. Each time he threw the dart, he simply tugged gently on the string, so as not to break it, until the dart came free and clattered to the stone floor. He then reeled in the string and threw the dart again. The young mousemaid was so amused by the simplicity of the idea that she couldn't help but giggle. The stoat had stopped when she entered and grown still and tensely watchful, as was his habit, but he now scowled, tilting his head questioningly. She hid her smile behind one forepaw, but couldn't stifle her laughter. She left him in peace then, but continued laughing all the way back down the hall.

While having the game to occupy himself did seem to calm the stoat, he settled into a different kind of insanity over the following days. He had, it seemed, a natural talent for the game, and could soon hit any point on the target that he chose, a feat that entertained Ranno to no end. But he never stopped. When Ranno tried again to talk to him, Domovoi answered in his typical sparse sentences, but kept his attention on the dart and the target. For three whole days, no one could pass the infirmary without hearing the dull _thunk_ of the dart striking the cork target. Even late into the night Nell could hear him from across the hall, endlessly tossing and retrieving the dart.

On the sixth day, the fever finally broke. By that point the swelling in his leg had almost gone, though the wound retained its fiery complexion. The spasms in his jaw had also started to recede, a point Carlotta had been sure to ask about each day so as to note when it improved.

The following evening, the stoat could no longer remain still. Nell entered to find him pacing awkwardly about the infirmary with his staff. He limped heavily, but was otherwise quite mobile. He refused to return to the bed, despite all Nell's heckling that he would only slow his own recovery. Eventually, she got him to stop pacing, but he still would not return to the bed. He stood sullenly in corner by the rocking chair and glared out at the room. Nell rushed out hurriedly to find Carlotta.

When Carlotta arrived, she came without Nell. She glanced toward the corner, noted stoat without any real surprise, then crossed to the hearth and began her usual ritual, pouring a cup of her medicine and retrieving a new set of bandages before she addressed him.

"Well? Sit down then. I can't very well work on your leg with you over there."

Grudgingly, the stoat returned to the infirmary bed and adopted his old position, keeping his face unreadable as ever. Carlotta crossed to him and began to change out the dressing on the wound. She worked efficiently, but the process still took a full five minutes. Domovoi drained the cup of medicine and placed it on the table. He waited, looking away towards the window. As Carlotta finished, he asked "How much longer must I stay here?"

Carlotta glanced up at him with a hint of bitterness. "You may leave tomorrow. You aren't fit to travel, but you won't do any real damage just walking around unless you get something in the wound or it starts bleeding. You can obviously put weight on it and stand to move about." She turned away to collect up the soiled bandages and replace her supplies. "And, the rest of the abbey is just dying to _meet_ you. They won't stand for seeing you cooped up in here any longer. You may accompany Ranno to dinner tonight." She turned back to find the stoat studying her with one eyebrow raised. Carlotta returned his stare with fiery intensity. "I supposed that fool Ranno told you everything he knows of my life story. Take heed, then. This abbey is my home. If you are a threat, I will kill you. Harm any beast within its walls, and I will do so slowly. Do not doubt me youngin. Old age and treachery will defeat youth and vigor every time, not matter how _tough_ you may believe yourself to be."

The stoat considered this. He seemed unconcerned. "Youngin?" was his only response.

Carlotta sniffed derisively. "It's always the same with young beasts. Insisting on their own maturity above all else lest they remain children too long. You have seen death and pain, that much is obvious, but do not make the mistake of believing that you know all there is about the world. I have lived long enough to see families grow, children raised and sent away, friends who would trust one and other with their lives, and all other things goodbeasts can accomplish. I have seen them torn down by war, famine, oppression, treachery, and _murdering vermin_. I've seen brothers kill each other for passion, families torn apart, and innocents slaughtered by the likes of you. Comrades who turn on each other and betray all they ever held dear. You're barely older than Ranno. Still young enough to believe that you can swing a sword and make yourself invincible. Know this though: You will not threaten my home."

For the first time since he arrived, the stoat's expression changed. His face cracked into a toothy smile that showed his fangs. But it didn't reach his eyes. He laughed aloud then, hollow, mirthless, and a strange madness seemed to dance behind his bloodshot eyes. Carlotta's hard stare faltered in surprise and confusion. "Murder?" he rasped, shaking with insane laughter. "Pain? Treachery? _Comrades!_" he spat. Gradually, the wild eyed vermin composed himself. All but his eyes. "Yes, I know to fear the old ones. Do not trouble yourself, Miss Mouse," he said with a hint of dark humor. "I won't harm your precious abbey. I have nothing to gain by it. You have my word, whatever it's worth. I mean to stay only until I can run again." Growing completely serious, he went on. "You are wise in many things old one, but I am no child." The ragged stoat reached up to trace his scar with one pad of his forepaw. "I've not been a child in a very, long, time."

…

…

…


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**

** Enough brooding! Time for the stuff being brooded on! **

** A few notes, sorry that there are so many.**

**About scale. In my story, creatures will be compared size wise the same way I read them in the cannon. If they were human, mice and similar creatures would be less than five feet tall. Ferrets, squirrels, stoats/ ermine, and weasels, in that order, would be very close in average size, between five and six feet in height, and average weight. Rats will be in this category, but will vary more than the others. Otters, foxes, hares, and cats are generally between 5'11" and 6'3", with varying weight. An average otter is 6'1", 185lb [not counting the tail, so they're pretty heavey]. Foxes are about the same size, but generally with a thinner build. Cats could be anywhere on this part of the spectrum. Hares are shorter than otters by two or three inches, broader in the shoulders, and about the same weight as an otter without a tail. Badgers are like Shaquille O'Neal, but athleticism will vary. The really big ones are thicker and slower. Birds will be realistic compared to each other, and compared to a real red squirrel. If I do my research, a bird that weighs the same as a squirrel in real life will weigh the same as a squirrel in my story. Reptile or amphibian characters who walk on two legs will be of a manageable size to interact with the cast. All others will be described in-story as needed. Characters will be human sized in comparison to the landscape and its plants, like trees. Insects will be small, like they are to humans.**

** With a few notable exceptions, [badgers, and some reptiles] all creatures will age at the same rate with roughly the life spans of modern humans. One real year = one story season. **

** Yes, I am aware that a stoat and an ermine are the same thing. I am ignoring this. Ermine will have more white fur than stoats. Many creatures change coat color when winter rolls around. I will ignore this.**

** Redwall Racism. It will be there, but written my way. It makes sense that a hare would fear, and thus hate, a fox. A few other creatures [the 'vermin'] are stereotyped as evil, and will be included in those generally feared by those characters inclined to be racist. Some characters will be racist by personality, others with good reason, or due to an occupational habit. Most military forces tend to villanize those they fight, to 'justify' killing them, for the sake of their own sanity and conscience. Whether or not the racists are correct will vary. No type of creature is inherently evil in my story, but some generally are due to the circumstances they grew up with. Based on the cannon, most vermin in Mossflower live as bandits. Few ever have the opportunity to escape this fate and are conditioned to accept it as right, making them for all intents and purposes 'evil'. Why are vermin thieves? Out of necessity. No one will trust them. Why won't anyone trust them? Because they are thieves. 'Goodbeasts' are usually raised to be noble, so are less often evil [at least to each other, at least openly]. However, traitors and bullies will crop up in any society. The woodlanders and 'goodbeasts' are not inherently good.**

"

"

"

"Ah, Colonel. Greetings. I trust that your travels went well?"

"They did. The fresh group is assembled and on their way, Komodo. This bunch is promising. With the war on, there are more to choose from than ever."

"Excellent. And have you brought me a Kaiyden?"

"Your job is to train squad leaders for the First Auxiliary Rangers. The king allows your project because of its effectiveness, but do not confuse your priorities."

"_Do_ forgive me. And where is your new… apprentice… Vetta, isn't it?"

"Captain Vetta will join us in a few hours when he arrives from other errands. He will be replacing me in the coming months. I've been reassigned to lead the entire Special Projects division. In the future, you will be only one of my many headaches."

"_Congratulations, _my old friend. I do hope you hold the post longer than your predecessor."

"Mind your tongue, ancient one."

"Of _course_, Colonel. And this replacement of yours. It shall be simply delightful to meet him. He is fortunate. He will get to observe the entire process, as we hone these wonderful young creatures into something so much more… interesting, and deadly."

"Sometimes I think you _enjoy _breaking these little killers."

"There _is_ an art to it, and I'm very, very good. But enjoy? Well, perhaps. When I put back the pieces, and the ones who live are made stronger. And oh, so _powerful._"

"You're a monster."

"Monster? No, dear Colonel. Just the artist who molds them, and sets them loose."

"

"

"

The young stoat walked in single file up the side of a mountain. A wide path zigzagged up the rocky slope, big enough for three to walk abreast. Ahead and behind him, young beasts roughly his age from every furred species and both sexes trudged along the path, flanked on the outside by an assortment of armed warriors. The warriors too represented a sampling of races, from hares and otters, to weasels, stoats, rats, mice, and even a shrew. They were all fit and well muscled. Few wore armor. They carried an incredible assortment of weapons. There seemed to be about one guard for every ten young beasts.

As the massive group snaked its way up the mountain, the guards examined their charges, peering into the eyes of each youngin in turn, sometimes doubling back to examine those further behind. In addition to their weapons, each guard carried a staff. If a youngin ever stopped or tried to rest, he was beaten back to his feet. No one spoke. Those who did received a prompt blow from the nearest guard. The children learned the rules quickly.

After what seemed like hours, for there was no sun in the clouded sky to tell, the young stoat began to reach the end of his endurance. His footpaws were battered and bruised by the unfamiliar rocky ground and his muscles burned. His throat was painfully parched. He had been well fed over the course of the journey but his last meal had been the night before. This was no great span of time, for he was no stranger to hunger, but never before had he attempted such exertion. They were only walking, but the stoat was as exhausted as the day he had fled the soldiers in the city. The altitude made him light headed. He couldn't get enough air.

Over the past several weeks, he had traveled with various groups of soldiers on his way here. He hadn't seen the two officers since the day at the orphanage.

The day he left the orphanage, the officers and soldiers had escorted him toward the edge of the city. Here, after meeting with about a dozen other groups, most of the soldiers had left. Several of the warriors that now guarded him had joined the group as they traveled, periodically joining with other groups and forming an ever larger convoy of guards and young beasts, along with several birds who circled threateningly overhead. Eventually, all of the ordinary soldiers left, leaving only these stone faced and silent warriors. Several of the young captives had tried to escape, but always the birds swooped down to snatch them into the air and carry the would-be fugitive back bodily, where he would be beaten most harshly.

Of course, there was one other strange detail. Every young beast had a knife. These had not been taken. The stoat fingered his own dagger, given to him by the colonel, tucked securely into the snakeskin sheath on his belt. The otter maid in front of him had a brutal looking hunting knife. He'd seen a mouse with an exotic looking blade with a wavy edge that would leave an incredibly messy wound. As far as he could tell, no two of the knives were identical.

At last, just as daylight began to fade, the path leveled out, as if they had reached the top of a plateau. They continued to follow it into a thick pine forest. After another half hour of walking, this gave way to a clearing some fifty yards across. In the center of this clearing, stood a turtle. He stood peacefully, gripping a crooked walking stick and watching as the group approached. The first half of the group had already begun to form a thick circle around the mysterious old reptile. His shell was dull and peeling, and his skin hung from his bones like half rotted fruit, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. He seemed kind as he smiled down at the youths who sat circling him. When all of the more than two hundred youngins had arrived, the guards took up positions around the edge of the clearing.

At the far side of the open area, two stoats in uniform stood side by side with the guards. The young stoat recognized them as the two officers from Calibeck.

When all grew silent at last, the turtle spoke. "Hello, younglings!" His voice creaked like an old grandfather. He smiled warmly at them all as he turned like one swimming through molasses to look over the gathering. When he continued, his words were just as slow. "I am so sorry that you have lost your homes, but you must understand that this is your home now." His face showed great sadness at this. The turtle's voice carried clearly through the otherwise silent clearing. "There is no way off of this plateau. The sides are sheer cliffs, excepting the path you all took to get here, and the birds are always hungry. We cannot stop them if you are out of our reach."

He paused, contemplating the upturned ring of faces. "From now on, your name is unimportant. That life is dead. If you cling to it, you will die as well, for this life is much harder, and demands your complete attention. You will all find a name soon enough."

As the old turtle spoke, dozens more warriors emerged from the trees to join the others. "Here, you will learn to be strong. These warriors will teach you. I suggest that you put forth the greatest possible effort when they instruct you. While it may seem that they mean you only discomfort, trust me when I say that they will make you strong. That, and only that, will keep you alive from now on. If you fall behind, if you are weak, no one can save you.

I give you only one more piece of wisdom today: sleep well, for you will need it. Good luck, younglings." With that, the old turtle started to move through the circle towards the tree line, walking as slowly as he spoke. The young beasts moved aside to let him pass, fascinated by the strange creature, and frightened by his words.

When he had gone, the warriors began to move through the group. The youngins were rounded up and led through forest, this time following no apparent trail. The group divided into smaller parties of twenty or thirty, each with enough warriors mixed in to control the children. These all went in separate directions. Eventually, the young stoat and his party stopped at a seemingly random place in the forest. The children were spread out and told to lie down and sleep. The Warriors handed each youngin a slab of dense nut bread and a small water skin. One, a fidgety mouse, tried to ask a question, but the only answer he got was a blow from a staff.

None of the children was given any kind of bedroll or blanket. Most had only ratty clothes. They had become accustomed to sleeping like this on the trip. The stoat sat with his back against a tree, hugging his knees close for warmth. He had often slept in the open on the streets of Calibeck, but some of the others were not so used to the hardship. Some had spent the first few nights of the journey sobbing. They had paid dearly for their insomnia, for no beast was ever given a break, and the pace each day had been hard. Eventually, they had grown weary enough to sleep anyway, and learned to be grateful for the respite, but they were still the most haggard looking among the children.

The otter maid with the large hunting knife sat leaning against a tree several yards opposite the stoat. Beside her was a plant with several tall red flowers. She reached over and picked one, breaking off the blossom and a section of the stem several inches long. The otter maid sniffed the flower and smiled. She tucked the flower behind one ear and leaned back against her tree.

The otter and the stoat locked eyes for a moment, but each looked hastily away as one of the warriors, a large, thickly muscled rat with a heavy battle axe a dangling at his hip, walked between them.

Late in the night, the stoat snapped his eyes open, jarred out of sleep by some instinct. He found himself staring up into the eyes of a lithe gray cat with blue, slit pupiled eyes and a broadsword slung over his shoulder. He looked old, with uneven whiskers and wrinkles that fixed his face in a permanent scowl. The cat showed no emotion or concern that the stoat had woken. He just continued to study the young beast. After several tense moments, the cat looked away and moved on.

About half the warriors slept along with the youngins. The other half leaned against trees keeping watch, or patrolled between the sleeping children. Eventually, the stoat drifted back into uneasy slumber. He would need his sleep, the turtle had said.

"

"

"

**Author's Note: Some lines taken from **_**Ender's Game**_**. Consider it homage to my favorite book. **


	7. Chapter 7

"Up! Up little'uns! Rise and shine!"

The young stoat jolted awake in the cool morning air. Dew coated everything, including his fur. He felt chilled all the way to his bones. His fingers wouldn't obey his commands as he tried to pick the nighttime grit from his eyes. Gray predawn light filled the forest.

"Feelin' chilly youngins? Well, we'll fix that." The speaker, the large rat with the battle ax, continued his tirade. "Up an' at 'em! You'll get real fond o' the ground, so give it a nice kiss goodbye for the mornin'!"

Suddenly, a blow to the head knocked the stoat on his side. A pine martin stood over him, brandishing the butt of a spear rather than a staff. "You were told to stand," the martin said. "You would do well to listen." The stoat clutched his head as pain lanced through it. Suddenly, he received a second blow, this one a brutal jab in the ribs. "How stupid are you, stoat? Stand!" the martin shouted, adding another blow that knocked the stoat over again as he tried to get up. The stoat scrambled away and jumped up, clutching his side. The martin smiled coldly and leaned on his spear. "You had better get sharper than that. Unless you'd like to be the day's first casualty."

All around, others were getting similar treatment. The rat was still shouting. "Everybeast awake? Good, good! March!" It was the first time the stoat had seen the warriors show any emotion at all. Something had changed. The rat even seemed to be enjoying himself.

The martin approached, still smiling. "You heard him. March." The whole group had started to move further into the forest. The stoat hastened to join them

As they walked, the warriors forced the youngins into a more organized group. Just as they had the day before while climbing the mountain, the line of young beasts marched through the forest in single file, flanked by warriors. Now though, the warriors cajoled and joked, driving them at nearly twice the pace of the day before. This combined with the altitude quickly exhausted all but the very strongest of the bunch. The group today was smaller, about twenty youngins, and there were more guards, enough to outnumber the children. Far over head, a single bird circled. It was a raptor, but it flew too high to tell anything else.

They marched for a full hour, before they came to a clearing. This one was smaller than the one where they met the turtle, about twenty yards across. Here, a ferret with one shredded ear and an eye patch stood waiting for them, a long dagger in one paw. He wore a belt with a dozen smaller throwing knives. As the group joined him, he stepped forward with a severe limp.

"Everybeast have his knife? Good. Get it out. My name is Flint. You're gonna learn how to fight with that knife. It's gonna be your best friend before the end o' this." He looked around the group with his one scowling eye. "Instructors, pair off with a youngling. Start with blocks, and move on to parries. I'll come around to help."

As one, the children began glancing around nervously. The closest warrior to the stoat was the spear toting pine martin. Their eyes met, and the martin chuckled, showing his teeth in an amused smile. "Well, if it isn't Slowness the Stoat himself. I hope you're a faster learner once you're awake."

The martin pulled out a two foot stick. The stick was a straight, smooth, length of some kind hardwood. Without warning, he drew back his arm and swung the stick at the young stoat's head. The stoat ducked on instinct, but couldn't avoid the second blow, a vicious backhand strike that hit him across the snout and bloodied his nose. The stoat scrambled back, one hand over his nose and crouched in fear, just out of reach of the spear. "Apparently not. You were _told_ to draw your weapon."

The stoat hastily yanked his dagger out of its sheath and stood facing the martin, wondering what to do. All around, the instructors and younglings had spread throughout the clearing leaving a few yards between each group.

"There are two ways to hold a knife. Upright, like a kitchen knife, or inverted, like you have it now. You'll learn upright first." The stoat looked down at the knife. He gripped it with his right paw, blade pointing downward away from his thumb. He flipped it around and looked back up to see what the martin would do next. "Better. Now, this is my sword," he said, holding up the stick and laying his spear down beside him. "Block it." the martin swung the stick gently in a diagonal arc towards the stoat's head. The stoat reached up and stopped the blow, catching the stick with the middle of the blade.

"Freeze." The martin commanded. The stoat obeyed, holding his arm in place where the "blades" met. "First off, your blade has a cross guard. Use it. Try to catch the blade in the corner of the cross guard where it meets the blade. If you try to stop a full power sword stroke with the tip, you won't have enough strength or leverage." To demonstrate, the martin pressed his "sword" past the knife, pushing it easily aside and tapped the young stoat on the neck. Then, he swung again and struck the knife at the point where the blade met the cross guard. This time, with the same pressure, he couldn't force past. "See? This will also keep the blade sharp. The point and the last half of the blade will do the most cutting, and contact with a real metal blade will dull the edge. Try to use the base of the blade to block and parry, and the point or end to stab and slash. Also, keep your arm tighter to your body. Hold it like this. And shift your grip so you hold the knife this way. Try again." The martin let him lower his arm, then swung again, a bit faster. The stoat blocked it, this time the way the martin had shown him. The martin repeated the same stroke a dozen more times, moving just slightly higher or lower each time as the stoat got into the rhythm of the drill and even started to enjoy himself.

"Good," the martin said, smiling. His smile put the stoat instantly on guard. "Now switch hands."

Over the course of an hour, the martin taught him how to deflect and block various different attacks, like sword strokes from the left, or the right, overhand strokes, or uppercuts, and thrusts. He taught the youngin how to deflect a thrust up and away if it came high, or down and away if it came low, always knocking the point of the enemy "blade" away from his own center. He showed the stoat how to stand with his feet staggered and his weight balanced, knees bent for control. Each time he taught something, the martin made sure the boy could do it with either hand. It always took more repetitions to learn with his left hand, but he started getting better. "Maybe you can learn," the martin commented.

This took about half an hour. After teaching him all these individual moves, the martin ran through them again, briefly, to make sure the boy had remembered them. Everything up to now had been slow and methodical, meant to teach the idea. The stoat had learned to "block" slashing strokes and parry thrusts aside. Each of these was different if the blow came from the left or right, high or low. The differences were intuitive, natural variations that made sense to the young stoat and weren't hard to remember. The hard part was the precision required to actually catch the blow rather than missing. Now, this part got harder.

The martin smiled again, satisfied that the stoat had learned these basics. "Let's practice," he said, still smiling. He stabbed toward the stoat, moving faster now. The young stoat parried the thrust and threw up his knife to catch the quick over handed slash that followed. "Use the cross guard!" the martin scolded. _Or what? I'm not good enough to block everything with that small of a target, not this fast! _The stoat thought this, but didn't dare say it out loud.He got a painful reminder of why when the martin swung hard at the stoat's leg, knocking the tip of the knife aside and landing a bruising blow on the young stoat's knee, making him stumble. "That's why!" the martin said, as if he could read the youngin's thoughts.

The pace picked up. The stoat was hard pressed to keep up under the barrage of blows. The whole concept was still so new. Every time the stoat missed, he got a new bruise. Seemingly every time the stoat made a mistake, he got hit, hard. The martin probably could have tagged him with every blow, but the stoat started to suspect that his teacher was allowing the stoat to win when he did the move correctly, and intentionally beating past his guard when he did something wrong, all to reinforce the lesson.

While they worked, the ferret came around to check on each pair. He paused to watch the stoat and the pine martin practice, then passed without a word.

Half an hour of abuse later, the stoat felt as though he was getting good at blocking the stick. He could fend off nearly every blow. In the last quarter of an hour, the martin had increased the difficulty of the drill by swinging faster and harder, and by striking in confusing combinations of blows to try and trick him. By this point, the young stoat's arms were tiring, and although he was mastering the technique, his reflexes were slowing. Just as the stoat caught another stinging blow to skull, Flint called out "Halt!" and all the teachers and students obeyed as one.

"Instructors, move them to the next station."

The group left the clearing at the same forced march pace as before. A quarter of an hour later, the group met another party. Both divided, half of each group joining the other before the newly mixed groups continued on their separate ways.

As the day passed, the younglings were sent to seven more hour-long "stations," each of which taught a different skill. During every change of stations, two groups would meet and mix, shuffling the youngins around and keeping them on their toes. Never throughout the day were the children allowed to speak to one and other, or to any beast save the instructor who was working with them or any adult who spoke directly to them.

At the next station, the youngins were instructed in archery. At another, they formed groups of four instead of two and began learning how to wrestle and grapple without weapons. Two instructors worked with two students, letting the youngins practice the techniques on each other as well as with the adults, though the youngins still weren't allowed to communicate with each other. Still another was a strange instruction in balance and gymnastics, where they came upon an expansive obstacle course in the biggest clearing yet.

The ground here was loose sand. Dozens of strange contraptions dotted the clearing. The youngins were taught to balance while walking across a narrow log, to climb poles and ropes, though some weren't strong enough to manage it, and how to perform basic somersaults and other little tests of balance and coordination. The more skilled each youngin was, the more the instructors taught him or her, moving on to more complex tasks, including a handstand in one case.

At each new station, every student was paired with a new teacher to receive one-on-one instruction in that station's skill, but never with the same teacher twice. The method of instruction varied, but perfection was always beneficial, while every error had unpleasant consequences. Every station also had an instructor who was there when each group arrived and stayed when they left. They seemed to be resident masters of the skills their stations taught.

The last interesting detail was the third group of adults. The warriors who had escorted the youngins up the path, though indiscernible from the other instructors by any visible difference, never served as teachers. Instead, they merely lurked at the edge of the various stations, watching, observing, never showing any emotion. The forty or so Watchers split up so that two or three were present at every station. They would occasionally take interest in a particular student, approaching a teacher-student pair and requesting that the student demonstrate a particular skill again, or differently, or that the teacher try and show a more difficult technique. The Watchers would observe, then leave, showing no emotion regardless of the outcome.

When the sun began to sink, the group came to a halt. The constant exertion combined with the high altitude had thoroughly exhausted the youngins. When given permission to stop for the night, they each found a place to lie down and fell asleep almost instantly. The young stoat sat as he had the first night, with his back to a tree. He recognized only a few of the children around him. Nearest him, the mouse with the wavy-bladed dagger was already asleep. A bit further away, a female ermine idly twirled what appeared to be a butterfly knife, a strange weapon mead from three parts. Two comprised the handle, the third the blade. The three were joined at a single hinge. Thus, when the two parts of the handle were held together, they fixed the blade in place like any other knife. The two parts of the handle could then be split and would fold around the blade, enveloping it inside the groove cut into each piece of the handle, making the knife very small and easy to conceal when folded.

Most of the adults were new as well. The boisterous rat with the battle axe had ended up with another party, as had the pine martin. Among those assigned patrol duty was a gray fox with an elegant longsword slung across his back, one of the watchers.

The stoat put them out of his mind and closed his eyes, leaning back against the jagged bark of the pine tree. He would need his sleep if he wanted to make it through the next day. Since Calibeck, each new day had only gotten harder.

Unbidden, the tune of an old song played through his head. It was a lullaby, a distant memory from his early childhood. He couldn't remember the words, but it had a slow haunting melody. The stoat began humming the song as he tried to fall asleep, and found it calmed his nerves. As he relaxed into slumber, his last thought was to wonder what the coming days would hold.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note:

In this story, nobody wears shoes unless it's specialized footwear, like boots for soldiers, or for snowy climates.

The ratio of time spent thinking to time spent writing in this story is huge. I wrote this in about five sittings, but it took me weeks to think through how I wanted all this to line up. Hopefully, details that I've dropped in this and past chapters will fill in blank spots that get left due to perspective changes. If not, please tell me so I can fix it.

Shout outs to _Ender's Game_ and _Inheritance _via stolen names. I'm pretty sure "Aloran" was a secondary character in one of the _Animorphs _books too, but that was accidental, no reference intended. I'm bad with names, so the good ones I think up tend to just be ones I've heard or read and forgotten where I found them.

And now, let the bodies hit the floor…

"

"

"

** "Promising lot, this bunch, eh Mazer? What with the war on the prisons and orphanages are overflowing with street urchins to choose from. Think we'll finally get one? The pot's five rounds old and still nobeast has won it. Just think of that pile of gold…"**

** "Impossible to say so early, Tornac. I am curious to see which ones are left after they thin them out a bit."**

** "Got a favorite yet then?"**

** "No."**

** "What's your favorite type to train? You taught that squirrel who almost made it two tears back. Only reason she failed was they rejected her. She wasn't a 'team player.' But then, you always root for the lone wolves and underdogs, eh?"**

** "The species of the student is irrelevant. It's their temperament that makes the difference. I've known mice who could best badgers for shear tenacity."**

** "Yeah, I remember that one almost made it too. Final four, right?"**

** "Correct."**

** "Tell me something; if you're so choosy, how come you always choose last? With your record, you ought to have first pick every time. I've got third pick this time and I'm lovin' it. Like you said, you've got to get one with the right temperament, or it's hopeless."**

** "Ha. That's why you've got third pick, and not second or first. Temperament is essential, but it can be shaped as well as found. It must be. Kaiyden are almost never born. They have to be made. You can teach them to fight like no one else, Tornac, but you never got the hang of shaping their minds."**

** "Hm. You still didn't answer why you like to pick last."**

** "No. I didn't. Maybe I like to see the field and choose the one who can beat what the others have chosen. Or maybe it's like you said. I just like to root for the underdog. They are willing to learn, and that makes them the best students."**

"

"

"

The second day began like the one before. The youngins woke when a burly red fox began shouting loudly just as the rat had. Everybeast rose hastily and took off running, led by the teachers and trying to shake off the cold of the night. Morning rations were handed out as they ran. The youngins were forced to eat on the run this time.

The young stoat quickly decided that he hated running. He had often had to run in his old life, from merchants, from the baker, from the soldiers, but the thin air on the plateau made it many times more painful. No matter how forcefully he sucked air into his aching lungs, it was never enough. He felt as though the altitude would suffocate him. With every contraction of his quickly deadening muscles, they as felt if they were being filled with acid. The stitch in his side felt like a knife between his ribs.

He wasn't the only one who felt this way. They were all suffering. One young rat insisted upon voicing his discomfort, no matter how many times the instructors beat him back into silence. He lagged near the back of the group and seemed to be having the hardest time keeping the pace.

"Why can't we just walk?" he moaned.

The smack of wood on flesh sounded as they ran. Daring to glance back, the stoat saw a second fox lift the young rat off the ground by one ear and hurl him forward. The rat stumbled back to his feet and ran on, one paw clutched over his abused ear.

"You'll move at the pace of the group," the fox said harshly.

"But I'm tired," the youngin moaned. "Why's the group gotta move so fast anyway? Can't we just rest for a little while?"

From the front of the column, the burly fox called for everybeast to stop. They all complied gratefully, resting with their hands on their knees and casting nervous glances around as they all wondered what was going to happen.

The instructors grouped the children into a circle around the lead fox, who stood with his sword, a heavy scimitar, resting lazily at his side. He pointed to the rat and gestured for him to step forward. The rat froze, terrified, until the one of the instructors jabbed the youngin in the back with his staff, prodding him forward. The rat staggered a few steps toward the center of the circle, then stopped again, starring at his own feet in terror.

When the lead fox spoke, his voice was kind, nurturing even. It made a stark contrast to all the shouting earlier. He smiled. "Are you tired?"

The rat glance hurriedly up and then back at his feet. "Y-yessir."

"Would you like to take a rest?"

"Y-yes," the rat stammered, looking up hopefully.

"Of course you may rest," the fox said, beaming kindly. "You may have all the time in the world." The fox swung his scimitar over his head in a mighty arc, ending with a powerful upward stroke. The blade hit the young rat and opened his body from hip to shoulder. The rat was cut in two as the honed scimitar sliced through flesh, sinew and bone, through his rib cage and spine, passing completely through him in one bloody stroke. Blood flew from the tip of the blade as it left the rat's body, painting several of the watching youngins with a line of crimson droplets.

The mangled body fell to the ground in a bloody heap, the two pieces held together by only a few inches of flesh near the hip, one arm completely severed. The rat's internal organs spilled out of the split cavity of his body. Blood made a steaming, spreading pool on the forest floor, still damp with morning dew.

What was left of the young rat convulsed, his mouth wide, no longer able to contract the severed muscles that would have let him scream. The fox knelt next to him, still smiling, and reached out with one paw to pat him on the cheek. "Sleep well, young one," he said kindly. Then he cleaned his blade on a patch of grass and rose, stepping away from the child he had reduced to a twitching pile of blood and offal.

He examined his blade, then sheathed it. Deadly silence reigned in the clearing. The lead fox looked around with the same kindly expression. "Does anyone else need a rest?" No one answered. The youngins hardly dared to breathe. "Excellent." They resumed their march, leaving the rat where he had fallen.

The stoat decided that running was just fine.

The classes that day progressed as they had the day before, but they weren't the same. Today, there were several new classes, while others were left out. They went to Flint's knife fighting station, and the gymnastics station, but one of the new classes was a station devoted entirely to throwing things. They started out hurling simple fist sized balls of string at scarecrows while an instructor taught them several different techniques and how to throw without hurting their shoulders. By the end of the class they were throwing javelins and weighted sticks the instructors called strikers.

In another, they learned to swim. The process was not a kind one. The children and teachers waded out into a large pond, circling the shallow edges. The master of the station was an otter with a fearsome collection of tattoos. Those youngins who already knew how to swim, or learned quickly, were put through any number of challenges, from treading water in the deeper parts of the pond, to retrieving rocks from the bottom, or holding their breath for extended periods of time. The slow learners had a harder time of it. The instructors taught them the techniques necessary, then found ways to motivate the students so that success was a matter of life and death. Two young beasts, one a female hare, the other the male mouse with the wavy-bladed knife, were having particular trouble. They were forced out into the middle of the pond at spear point and told to tread water. The instructors continued to coach them, calmly offering whatever advice the youngins would listen to. The hare maid immediately slipped under water. Within a minute, she had drowned. The mouse struggled valiantly, but couldn't keep his head above water. It looked as if he would follow the haremaid to an early death, but when he fell underwater, he took a giant gulp of air with him. When he reached the bottom, he kicked off, propelling himself back to the surface to get air and try again. When he resurfaced, his instructor continued giving pointers while the other hauled the body of the young hare maid back to land and deposited her on the shore. After several minutes, the mouse finally seemed to get the hang of it and succeeded in keeping himself afloat until his instructor finally allowed him to doggy paddle back to shore. When the group left the station, they left the drowned hare maid lying on the shore, eyes wide and staring as a trickle of water spilled from her open mouth

The following days blurred together, one challenge after another. They were taught to run, jump and swim, to fight in every way imaginable, to climb, summersault, and perform any number of complex acrobatics, and given basic tutelage in the use of numerous weapons. An entire class was devoted to archery. The groups always ran between classes, and were mixed after every period so that while all the faces eventually became familiar, none of the youngins got to know each other very well. The pace increased over time until they never traveled slower than a hectic run through the forest, with or without a path. After the first week, two classes every day were spent on simple exercises to strengthen their muscles. The children stood in a circle facing a station master while the instructors and watchers kept guard on the outside and administered motivation as necessary. The children did jumping jacks, pushups, simple arm raises, and many other exercises that, at first glance, were easy, but grew harder, even painfully so, after just a few repetitions. Always, they were under the watchful eyes of the instructors. Never were the youngins allowed to speak to one and other. And their numbers dwindled.

In the coming months, certain events became lodged in the young stoat's memory.

Two weeks in, a hare tried to make a run for it. He darted out of the clearing where the youngins practiced archery and into the trees, running in zigzags to avoid the arrows he was sure would come, shot by the weasel leading the station, who carried a powerful looking longbow and a quiver of black fletched arrows. The stoat watched with interest. The ferret did indeed draw his longbow, taking aim down the shaft of his arrow at the fleeing hare, but, with a glance toward the sky, he lowered it, smiling mirthlessly and relaxing his bowstring. A flicker of a shadow passed over the group of anxiously watching youngins. None of the adults had made any move to follow the hare. Following the ferret's gaze, the stoat spotted a small hawk swooping down from the sky. There always seemed to be a bird circling, no matter where the youngins went, but they had always stayed aloft, never doing more than circling ominously high over head. Most of the youngins had forgotten they were even there.

Now, the bird hurtled earthward, leveled out a few dozen yards from the treeline, then darted through the forrest after the hare, displaying truly impressive reflexes and dexterity. The hawk flitted nimbly through the trunks of the trees with all the deadly speed of his dive and snatched the fleeing hare off his feet, then pulled up and lifted the flailing youngin above the tree tops, rising higher and higher into the sky with labored wing beats. When they were many hundreds of feet from the ground, the hawk dipped a wing and glided over the clearing, then opened his talons and let the young hare fall back to earth. As he fell, the lad let loose a bloodcurdling scream of terror.

The ferret drew and released his arrow in one motion. It sped upward toward the falling hare, meeting him mid-fall and cutting his scream short in a kind of strangled cry. The hare fell the remainder of his way back to the ground in silence. He landed on his face. The force of the fall folded his legs and large feet over his head and snapped his spine. Everyone in the clearing clearly heard the wet crunch as his skeleton was pulverized by the impact. The weasel's arrow stuck out of the lad's body at an angle.

The hawk circled lazily down and landed beside its kill. He tilted his head to examine the dead hare better, then jerked his head and powerful beak down in a snakelike motion and tore off a chunk of the hare's shoulder. Everyone in the clearing went back to work, trying to focus through the sounds of cracking bones and tearing flesh as the hawk devoured the young hare.

Over time, though the children were never allowed to communicate with each other, they learned to read each other and the teachers by their demeanor and body language until words were unnecessary.

Thus, one day when they entered a completely empty clearing with nothing but a modest expanse of sand, they knew from the atmosphere to be afraid. They paired off as always, but there was no station master today. There also seemed to be at least two dozen Watchers in the group, an unprecedented number.

The stoat looked at his instructor and realized with some trepidation that it was the very pine martin who had woken him the first day. He was still carrying a spear rather than a staff. The martin smiled. "Hello again, Slowness. Are you on your toes today?"

Without warning and as one, the individual instructors all attacked their students, swinging their staffs in brutal arcs and attempting to bludgeon their charges to death. The stoat instantly forgot about everyone else in the clearing, singularly focused on his own survival. He had no idea why they were trying to kill him, but he had no intention of dying. He danced out of the way of two sweeping strokes from the butt end of the spear and drew his knife, knowing from experience that in anything to do with a fight, he was supposed to have it out and ready. The stoat tried to block the next blow with the crook of the blade, the point where it met the cross guard, but only had it knocked from his forepaw completely, jarring his wrist as well.

The stoat dove after his dagger, but the next blow hit him in the back, knocking him to the ground. He rolled onto his back to try and defend himself but was instantly pinned down by the martin's right footpaw. The stoat tried everything he could think of to get free. He punched and twisted, beat on the martin's footpaw, ankle, and leg with all his might, but to no avail. The martin only smiled and put more weight on the footpaw until the stoat could no longer draw breath. Struggling ever harder, the stoat remembered his knife and reached an arm back over his head, scrabbling frantically for his weapon as spots danced in his vision from lack of oxygen.

At last he found it. The stoat gripped his knife and stabbed toward the leg holding him down. The martin was faster though. The footpaw trapping the stoat lifted, allowing him one desperate breath, but the martin nimbly avoided the knife blade and knocked it once again from the stoat's forepaw with the butt of his spear before planting his footpaw back on the stoat's chest before he had time to escape and forcing all the precious air from his lungs a second time.

The knife landed by the stoat's own footpaw, out of reach. In one last desperate move, the stoat reached out with his footpaw and gripped the knife in his toes. He swung his leg upward with all the strength he could muster and jammed the knife point first into the martin's hamstring, driving the blade in fully half its length.

The martin bellowed in pain and surprise, and leapt away. Before he lost the weapon again, the stoat reached up with his fore paw and snatched back his knife, then scrambled in the opposite direction as the martin, heaving grateful breaths of air. He snatched up a pawful of sand and got quickly to his feet, knowing it would be unwise to linger on the ground. Grimly, he squared off with the martin once again, considering his options. The youngins had been taught the basic concept of knife throwing, each practicing with his or her own knife, but none of them was remotely competent. Still, it was his only chance, even if he might as well be throwing a stick for all the chance that he would actually be able to sink the point into his target. He knew that he would never be able to best the martin in melee combat.

The stoat hurled his pawful of sand. In the same instant that the Martin ducked his head to protect his eyes, the stoat flipped the knife in his paw and drew back his arm to throw it. The martin turned back to face him and their gazes met. The stoat was just about to throw when two strong paws gripped him from behind. One latched firmly onto the wrist of his knife arm; the other rested lightly on his neck. The needle sharp point of a feline claw pressed warningly against the stoat's right jugular vein. He froze.

"I think that will do, Emmet," said the smooth male voice of the newcomer. The paws holding the stoat released him and the stoat sprang several steps away to where he could keep both beasts in front of him.

The second turned out to be the grey furred cat with the broadsword.

The martin slowly lowered his spear. "Of course, Mazer," he said deferentially. Looking back at the stoat, Emmet's face stayed completely blank. He grudgingly inclined his head to the stoat, as if the youngin had passed some kind of test, then turned and limped away.

Looking around the clearing, the stoat saw that the Watchers had stepped in to break up all the other pairs of combatants as well. Out of roughly a score, three students lay dead from varying injuries. Also though, and the stoat did a double take at the sight, the snow white female ermine seemed to be standing over the body of one of the instructors. Her butterfly knife was bloodied, and the instructor, a mouse, lay in a pool of blood that was still draining from his throat. How she had accomplished this, the stoat had no idea, but now the ermine maid looked around in fear. Nothing happened to her though. The instructors rounded up the students and shepherded them back into the forest. The four bodies stayed where they had fallen. As the group left, the stoat glanced back and saw several birds descending upon the clearing.

On the run to the next station, the stoat couldn't help but notice that the Watchers were still watching, studying the students carefully. He was sure he could feel the eyes of the grey cat boring into the back of his head.

On another occasion, the students had the opportunity to compete with one and other in a race through an obstacle course. The challenges included things like swinging across a set of hanging rings, climbing over a wall, and navigating a field of crisscrossing ropes tied to stakes at the sides so that they were suspended a foot off of the ground. After at least a dozen more obstacles, the second to last test was a rectangular wooden arch, like a giant doorway, at least two dozen feet tall. At the top was a bell, and on either side were two ropes hanging all the way to the ground. The object of the obstacle was to climb the rope and ring the bell. To win the race, the competitors would finish with a fifty yard sprint to a finish line.

The nature of the course made it such that in certain places, the runners would be in very close proximity, especially in an even matchup. Cutthroat tactics and roughhousing were not only allowed, but encouraged. As the station master, an athletic looking squirrel, told them, cheating would be a vital key to victory.

Students ran the course in pairs, and the winners were given food as a prize. The students were still forbidden to communicate, but the looks they cast at one and other were as good as trash talk. They all knew each other's abilities by now, knew their strengths and weaknesses.

When the stoat's turn came, he was paired with another stoat, a lithe female known by now for her speed. He would be hard pressed to beat her. At the starting line, she looked over and gave him a coy smile. _This will be easy, _the look said. _See you at the finish line._

The stoat had to admit that for once, he was having fun. He enjoyed this sort of contest, especially since it was fair. There was no advantage of age among them, only natural talent and wit. He narrowed his eyes, and grinned back. _Bring it. _

The squirrel lowered his arm to signal the start, and the pair took off. From the beginning, the stoat could tell he was out matched. She immediately gained a lead and refused to surrender it. The stoat wouldn't accept defeat though. He almost passed her on a ladder leading up to the set of swinging rings, but she reached up to grasp his foot and wedged it into the rungs of the ladder before he realized what she was doing. He was stuck for several heartbeats, allowing her to get back in front of him and costing him precious seconds.

He almost caught her again when she had difficulty climbing the far side of a large trench. It was several yards deep with gravel sides that shifted underfoot. He climbed straight over her, using her head as a stepping stone and pulled himself over the edge back to solid ground.

His time in the lead was short, however. She raced easily past him as they ran toward the next obstacle, tripping him effortlessly as she passed. He sprang after her, growling in frustration.

She beat him to the arch with the ropes by fully twenty yards, but wasn't as strong at climbing as she was at running. When she was three quarters of the way up her rope, he had almost caught up to her on his. Looking back at him, the female stoat smiled again. She hung from the rope by one hand, and held her knife in the other, with which she started sawing at his rope. Under the tension of his body weight, the fibers cut easily. An instant before his rope broke, he leapt wildly onto hers, and the two swung precariously. He heaved himself upward one more time, then lunged for the female stoat's ankle and caught hold of it. With a furious yank, he pulled her free of her rope to tumble past him to the ground. As she fell, the female stoat let out a scream of outrage and lashed out with her knife, cutting a notch in his ear. He heard her hit the ground with a mighty thud, but didn't look down. Rather, he finished the last few feet to the bell, rang it, and descended hand over hand as fast as possible to avoid rope burning his forepaws. When he reached the bottom, the female stoat was getting unsteadily to her feet. He took off as fast as he could move, lest she somehow catch up.

He reached the finish line in triumph and allowed himself a cry of victory. Looking back, he saw that the female stoat still had not gotten to her feet. Every time she tried to rise, her left knee gave out and bent sideways. Even as he watched, she was grew more and more frustrated. Worried, he jogged back to her.

She gave him a rueful smile when he arrived. She was hurt, but didn't seem to bear him any ill will. She sniffed dismissively. _Fine. You win this round, but next time, you're toast. _

He smiled back. _You're on!_

Next to come to the female stoat's aid was the station master. The squirrel knelt beside her and began poking and prodding various points on the stoatmaid's injured knee. He frowned, then tested the stability of the joint by putting pressure on it in various directions. When he pressed on the outside of the joint, it bent inward in a way no healthy knee ever should. The female stoat winced in pain. The squirrel rose without a word and strode away. The station master pointed to one of the Watchers, an otter, and then jerked one thumb over his shoulder at the two stoats. The otter unslung a bow from his back and knocked an arrow.

Oblivious, the young stoat offered his injured companion a paw up. She contemplated the proffered forepaw, then grasped it and let him haul her to her feet. She put one arm over his shoulder and they limped together back toward the group. He couldn't help but wonder how she would keep pace with the group in her condition.

Suddenly, she gasped as an arrow sprouted from her chest. Looking around wildly, the young stoat saw the otter archer raise his bow and fire again. The second arrow skewered the stoatmaid's neck, knocking her over backwards and out of the young stoats grasp. She landed on the ground and convulsed in agony. The young stoat stood over her with no idea what to do. He thought for a moment that he might be next, but the otter had already lowered his bow and turned away.

The female stoat was still thrashing, but her struggles were already growing weaker. A patch of blood was spread across her filthy shirt. The first arrow had pierced her heart; the second had done unknowable damage to the blood vessels in her neck. Their eyes locked for an instant. She was terrified. Then she fell limp, gazing over his shoulder at the sky.

The young stoat's mind went blank. The feeling was all too familiar. This was his fault. How could he have thought these pitiless adults would suffer a cripple? If he hadn't pulled her off the rope, she would still be alive. Then another thought occurred to him. What if he had been the one to fall? He reached up and felt the bloody gash in his ear where she had cut him. Just how close had he come to death that day?

Turning away, the stoat walked back to the group. The next pair were already racing through the course. They would have to fight over just one rope. She had tried to drop him first. He had merely responded in kind. This did nothing to ease his troubled thoughts.

One of the instructors handed him something. He took it numbly. A piece of the same dense nut bread they ate every day. One extra ration. His winnings.

Soon, the weather began to change. The air on the plateau grew not just thin, but bitingly cold. It burned at their lungs and numbed their fingers. Each of the youngins was given new clothing. This included simple shoes to protect their feet, pairs of long pants, shirts with sleeves that reached to their wrists, and scarves. They were advised to wrap the scarves around their heads and faces and to breathe through the fabric in order to protect their lungs from the cold.

It was by no means proper winter attire in such a climate, but the youngins generated so much body heat while running and exercising that it was sufficient. The only times they really suffered the cold were classes where they had to stand still or nearly so, and nights.

On the same day they were given new clothes, one of their classes was devoted to teaching them how to build the simplest of shelters, just enough protection from the elements to keep them alive for the nights. Another class taught them to build fire, and how to make the best use of a tiny blaze in combination with their simple shelters. They also learned to make the fires nearly smokeless, how to make them less detectable, how to bank the embers in earth to save them for later, and how to quickly remove all trace of their presence when they broke camp. These skills became essential to their nightly routine, and kept them alive in the cold. Each student was given a small flint and steel to use each night to build his or her fire.

The only thing missing was a way to keep their hands warm. When the first snow came just a week later, the students were forced to improvise. During their exercise period, the youngins had to put their hands on the ground for many of the exercises. In just a few seconds, the cold snow on the young stoat's forepaws became too painful to bear. He removed his scarf and tore off two sections big enough to wrap around his aching forepaws, but left enough of the scarf to still use it for its original purpose. Even so, warding off frostbite was difficult.

One young otter maid, who still carried a flower behind her ear, wasn't so lucky. As they camped for the night one evening, the stoat caught a glimpse of her forepaw. Half of her index finger was blackened and dead looking, and causing her enough pain that she could hardly use her forepaw.

That night, she sat cowering under her tiny lean-to trying to warm her injured finger next to her fire. She kept glancing around fearfully and hiding her paw whenever one of the adults passed. They looked like sharks, as if they could smell her fear. Each one that passed eyed her appraisingly, then moved on. The ottermaid kept trying to rewarm her finger, but finally gave up when she held it so close to the flame that the fur caught fire. She stared at it despairingly.

Then her face hardened, and she seemed to come to a decision. Drawing her blade, a massive hunting knife, she cut a narrow strip of cloth off her scarf and wrapped it around her frostbitten finger tightly enough to cut off all blood flow and knotted it near the first knuckle. Then she took up her knife again, set the blade's edge against the underside of the second knuckle on her bad finger, and, stealing herself and screwing her eyes shut, heaved up and back on the knife, sawing through the joint in one stroke and removing the last two digits of her injured finger. Her face contorted in agony, but she didn't make a sound. The severed appendage hit the ground with a soft thump. She clutched her forepaw close to her body and rocked forward where she sat, putting her head between her knees. She stayed there, unmoving, for nearly half an hour. She never made a sound.

At the end of four months, only a hundred and twenty-four of the original group of over two hundred youngins remained. The survivors were a season older. They were stronger, faster, harder in both body and spirit. They were wary, wily, and ready for anything, determined to survive. They were no longer children, but battle scared survivors. Then their situation changed again.

"

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"

**Torch light flickered, doing a poor job of illuminating a massive, ominous, cavelike room. The walls were carved from solid rock. In the center of the room was a circular table, carved out of the solid stone and still part of the floor. Grouped around this table stood two score warlike beasts, armed with a collection of weapons as varied as the beasts who carried them. Nearly every species was represented. Only three members of the group were different. **

**Two were dressed in Treyshan officer's uniforms. Though they too were armed, they stood with more poise and discipline than the others. Also among the group was an ancient turtle with a crooked walking stick and bright, dangerous eyes. **

**In the center of the table was a sizable mound of gold and silver coins that would have filled a three gallon pail. **

**The old turtle spoke first. "Greetings, my friends. I trust you have all had enough time to observe the younglings so that you can make your decisions?"**

**A short, wiry otter spoke for the group. "Aye. That we have. Nice crop to choose from this time, too."**

"**Then we may begin," the turtle said. "Aloran," he continued, addressing the otter, "As your pupil performed the best last time, you may choose first from the fresh crop."**

"**The ottermaid with the hunting knife. The one who chopped off her own frostbit finger. The gal's got grit." With that, the otter set a small coin pouch on the smooth stone table and slid it toward the center to join the pile already there. **

"**An excellent choice, Aloran. Reddek?"**

**A shrew carrying an elegant rapier spoke next. "I'll have that angry little mouse with the squiggly dagger." He copied Aloran and added his own pouch of coins to the pot. **

"**Tornac?"**

**A grey fox with a hand-and-a-half longsword across his back answered. "The ermine lass with the butterfly knife. The one who killed an instructor in the sand pit."**

**All around the table, beasts chuckled quietly, or grinned and said nothing. "Careful, Tornac," someone muttered. "That one might be a handful."**

"**Oh, I'm sure," Tornac answered, unfazed. "Did you see the look on her face when she stabbed him? That one's a natural killer." He tossed his contribution onto the pot and Komodo moved on to the next in line. Each beast chose one of the youngins, and added his share to the pot. **

**As they continued, Captain Vetta leaned toward his superior and asked quietly, "Sir, if I may, what is the pile of gold for?"**

"**It is an old tradition among the trainers," Colonel Graff answered. "With each new crop of students, each of them observes the group for a full season or more. Then, they come here and each chooses one to mentor individually. The trainees will eventually join the First Auxiliary as squad leaders. Each instructor is paid a bonus if his pupil survives training. **

**However, there is another goal. A contest of sorts. Komodo oversees this training process, but he is allowed a side project. The Kaiyden are his creation. He's been alive for centuries. If any of the candidates stand out, he may choose them to join the Kaiyden. Each trainer adds two months pay to the pot, and the one who trains a pupil who is accepted into the Kaiyden keeps it all. If nobeast succeeds, the pot stays and they add to it for the next crop. This pot is five crops old. In the last five groups, there has never been a Kaiyden. In this crop though, there are already several likely candidates. **

**They will choose the favorites, as they are the most skilled teachers, and the rest will be assigned to the most competent of the other instructors. It is not unheard of for one of them to succeed when all those here fail. If they distinguish themselves, they may be given the opportunity to join this council."**

"**And the instructors? Who are they?"**

"**All veterans from various branches of the Treyshan military, forced to retire for one reason or another, or chosen by Komodo personally. Some went through this camp."**

"**So, how many of these… Kaiyden… are there?"**

"**At the moment, five."**

**At last, Komodo reached the pine martin standing quietly at the opposite side of the table. "Emmet, you will be taking your first pupil from this crop. You may choose from any of the remaining younglings."**

**Emmet leaned thoughtfully on his spear. After a moment, he said "How about that red fox? The one who took a liking to the spear in his weapons classes?" **

**Komodo smiled. "A fine choice. And if I am not mistaken, there is still one more here who has yet to choose." **

**From out of the shadows stepped a lean but well muscled grey furred cat with a broadsword slung across his back. His fur had made him almost invisible against the stone wall of the cavern. **

**He tossed his gold onto the pile and spoke. "The stoat. The one Emmet fought in the sand pit."**

**For the second time, laughter erupted around the table. **

**A tall hare was the boldest. "Isn't he the one that almost cried when Martland shot his little ladyfriend? Trying to save another softy, are you Mazer? People will start thinking you've gone soft yourself if yours don't quit hesitatin' on the killing blow."**

**Mazer didn't flinch. "Wasn't it your student who cut and ran at the second contest last time around, Edric?" **

**The hare scowled and flattened his ears in embarrassment. **

"**This youngin is also the one who crippled the other stoat in the first place, and stabbed Emmet. And," Mazer added. "He's not afraid to cheat. The lad has tenacity. I can teach him to kill. Besides, the weak ones tend to be the most violent when they finally snap."**

**Komodo spread his arms in a sweeping gesture. "It is decided then. You may collect your new pupils tomorrow."**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:**

**Please pardon my combination of United States Army, Ancient Roman, and Made Up titles for some military figures in this story. **

"

"

"

The stoat stared intently at his target, gripping a bow in his left paw, the fingers of his right resting lightly on the string and holding the black fletched shaft in place. In one smooth motion, and without taking his eyes from the target, the stoat drew and released the arrow, waiting as it shot across the gap to bury itself in the shoulder of a scarecrow some twenty meters away.

The adult otter standing beside him grunted, unsatisfied. "A hit, but barely. Remember to draw the shaft back to the same point every time you shoot. It will make you more consistent. If you forget again, I'll give you a knife wound to remember the spot."

The stoat nodded his acknowledgement of the threat. He knew from experience that it wasn't idle.

Concentrating on a spot at the corner of his jaw, the stoat knocked another arrow and eyed the target.

"Remember your fingers."

Glancing down, the stoat adjusted his grip on the string and the arrow, drew, and released.

Just as the arrow sprang away, whistling downrange, a flash of movement to his right made the stoat jerk his head quickly away, but not fast enough, as a small line of pain opened up at the corner of his jaw, the spot he was supposed to remember, and which he had forgotten when adjusting his grip.

The otter sheathed his blade without a word.

They kept practicing. The pain in his jaw helped, letting him focus on the other aspects of the shot while his draw point took care of itself. With the constant pain to remind him, his forepaw seemed to find the spot automatically. The consistency of his shots improved.

When the time came to move on, the stoat laid his bow and quiver on the ground beside him and turned to follow the group, only to find his way blocked by one of the watchers, the grey cat with the broadsword. The stoat struggled to calm a sudden spike of adrenaline. All day, students had been quietly taken from the groups by watchers. The remaining youngins had grown steadily more agitated as the day dragged on. Change was seldom good.

Now it was the stoat's turn.

The cat said nothing, and the stoat did not try to go around him. Clearly, he was to stay put. The stoat fidgeted as the last of the other students and instructors filed into the trees.

When the cat spoke, his voice was deep, flat, and businesslike. "Your training will proceed differently from now on. My name is Mazer. I will be mentoring you personally until you either finish your training, or die."

This piqued the stoat's interest. There was an end to all of this? "Finish?" he asked carefully.

Mazer's whiskers twitched in what might have been amusement. "Yes, finish," He answered. "This is only preparation for your final goal, but that will not be important for some time yet. You have much still to learn if you intend to survive that long. Hand me your blade."

The stoat drew his dagger and handed it to the cat. Mazer took the blade, examined it, and before the youngin could react, smashed the pommel of the dagger into the stoat's face, sending him sprawling.

The stoat rolled instantly to his feet and stumbled back, entirely focused on survival now, reaching instinctively for his dagger and finding it gone as the world spun from the blow to his head. He stumbled again and stared back at the grey cat who still calmly held the dagger, examining it once more.

"A good blade," Mazer commented, turning it over and testing the edge with his thumb. "Sturdy, practical, effective, and you've maintained it well." He tossed the weapon through the air to the stoat, who caught it deftly. "Never let it out of your control again," the cat said, then turned and strode toward the trees. "It's the only thing on this forsaken plateau that you can trust."

After a moment's hesitation, the stoat followed.

The cat moved through the trees at a brisk walk, slower than the stoat had traveled anywhere in over a season. He followed no trail, but stepped so silently through the branches and brush that the stoat began to feel nervously self conscious at his own noisy progress through the forest.

After just a few minutes, they came to a clearing the stoat hadn't seen before, only a dozen yards across and unconnected to any trail. Mazer padded to the far side and retrieved a plank resting against a tree. This he tossed to the stoat, who caught it with his free hand, as the other still gripped his dagger. The plank was as thick as his thumb, as wide as his paw, and a head and a half taller than he was, though it would only have reached Mazer's shoulder.

"First," Mazer explained, "You're going to carve that into any type of bladed weapon you choose. Put some thought and some effort into it, because it's what you'll practice with for the near future."

This made sense to the stoat. The youngins had been trained with a number of weapons already, usually practice weapons with wooden blades. Being allowed to choose was a new experience though. He considered the plank for a moment, then set to work, always keeping part of his attention on the cat, who waited patiently, watching from the opposite side of the clearing.

At last, the stoat was satisfied with his weapon. It was nothing creative, just a simple sword as long as his lower arm with the fingers of his forepaw extended. This made it short enough to swing quickly, while keeping enough heft to deliver a strong blow. The last few inches tapered to a shallow point, and he had carved the lower part into a handle. There was no cross guard. That kind of detail would have required more skill than the stoat possessed, and time.

The stoat glanced nervously at Mazer. Taking too long to complete an instruction always had consequences. So did completing that instruction poorly. The stoat held his wooden sword in one hand, his dagger in the other, and awaited the cat's judgment.

Mazer only nodded, muttering thoughtfully. "A dirk or a cutlass perhaps…" He drew his sword, real and definitely not made of wood, and gestured for the stoat to come closer. The youngin obeyed, stepping out of the circle of leftover wood shavings as he cautiously approached the center of the clearing. The cat did the same.

"Sheath your knife." Mazer said.

The stoat made to stow the blade, but hesitated, remembering the first time the cat had given him an instruction.

The cat twitched a whisker and nodded. "Better. But it will still be at your side if you need it. Besides, it will only get in your way for the moment. I'll teach you how to fight with two weapons later."

The stoat still made no move. He cast a nervous glance at the sword in the older beast's paw.

"This?" Mazer asked, turning the blade so it caught the light, displaying several scratches and knicks in the edge, evidence of heavy use. "Some instructors prefer to use a practice blade when teaching. I find that a real edge tends to inspire a higher level of… focus. Now put the knife away so we can begin."

The stoat thought for a moment longer, then looked down to sheath his blade. He looked up just in time to fend off a thrust at his chest.

They spent the remainder of the day sparring. The cat was an expert swordbeast, strong enough to guide the massive broadsword perfectly. He gave pointers as they fought, correcting the stoat's form and footwork and controlling the battle completely, attacking in ways that reinforced each lesson, and punishing mistakes with precisely delivered cuts or painful blows from the flat of his blade. The stoat's wooden sword quickly acquired numerous notches and splinters.

"If you keep using the edge to block, that little toy is going to get cut to pieces soon. Then you'll have a problem," Mazer admonished.

Blocking with the edge instead of the flat would dull a real blade, the stoat remembered.

When the sun set and they finally stopped, the stoat was exhausted. The cat had pushed his endurance to its limit. Mazer elected to stay in the clearing for the night. He sat against a tree sharpening his sword and cleaning away little spots of blood. The stoat settled down gingerly on the opposite side of the clearing, feeling as though he had spent the last few hours sprinting through a forest of briar thorns while being pelted with rocks. The rough bark against his back was even less comfortable than usual. He thought about lying down on the soft moss like most of the teachers and students did, but decided against it. He felt safer with his back against the solid trunk, feet on the ground ready to run.

Mazer merely watched impassively, still tending to his weapon. The stoat laid his wooden sword across his lap, ignoring the splinters, and closed his eyes. At last sleep claimed him, but he could still feel the cat's gaze burning into his pelt as he drifted off.

"

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"

In a well lit chamber, lavishly decorated with tapestries, marble columns, and suits of armor, thirteen beasts sat around an oval table expertly crafted from foreign wood. At one end, a large ornate chair was obviously the position of power in the room. In it sat a stoat in a fine silk shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He wore simple pants of the same material. The outfit was bound together by a snakeskin belt sporting a brightly polished silver buckle. He sat slouched to one side, one leg crossed over other knee, and an elbow resting on the arm of the chair while the fingers of the opposite hand drummed restlessly on his thigh. The crown nestled between his ears was a heavy gold band bedecked with rubies and inlaid with swirling silver patterns.

Despite his casual pose, Emperor Haldric of Treysha looked upon his panel of advisors with sharp, dangerous eyes.

The other beasts around the table sat respectfully upright, dressed far more formally, in fine frilly robes, and other extravagant attire.

To emperor's immediate right sat a black cat in the dress uniform of a military officer. Ornate epaulets and the insignia on his sleeve marked him as a senior general. He seemed uncomfortable. His chest of medals clinked together every time he moved, and his muscular frame was ill suited to the confines of his dress uniform.

The next beast also wore military dress, that of a Colonel. He was a stoat, as was every remaining member, though none of the others were military figures. Rather, they wore the robes of either scholars or politicians.

The emperor was the first to speak. "Colonel Graff. Welcome. I trust you have been briefed on your responsibilities as head of Special Projects and advisor to the throne?"

"I have," the colonel answered.

"And have you finished grooming your replacement to oversee the training program on the plateau?"

"Yes."

"Then I shall have your report first. What news of the lost cargo?"

"None, my lord. We are still—"

"You are aware that the loss of said cargo is the reason your predecessor was beheaded?"

Colonel Graff swallowed, but maintained his composure. "Yes, my lord."

"Then you understand my impatience. I witnessed demonstrations of that weapon. It cannot fall into enemy hands. You would do well to begin your career on a strong footpaw, rather than inheriting failure. Does your division need anything else?"

"As always, the Plateau training program needs fodder for the students to practice against. I need—"

"You have my official permission to hire mercenaries out of the funds already allotted to your division and to dispose of their lives at your discretion. Anything else?"

"No, my lord."

The emperor turned his gaze on the cat. "General Sagáz. What news from the northern front?"

The cat's voice rumbled deeply. "The northern pine martins have reclaimed all territory north of the Myceen River. Our troops are growing weary. They need reinforcements."

"How badly?"

"Only half the invasion force remains."

"How many troops do you need?"

"At least eight thousand infantrybeasts. The martins are numerous, and they use the forest to their advantage. Their guerilla tactics have been quite effective. Out commanders will need more paws on the ground to properly drive them out.

But there is another problem, my lord. The main infantry is poorly suited to the task. The martins know that territory and they have already demoralized our forces. The Legions are better armored, better trained, and more disciplined. They are more capable of the kind of coordination necessary to dislodge a guerilla force from its own homeland. The Legions could do the job better with half as many soldiers. If possible, they should be the ones to reinforce our troops."

At this, a stoat in politician's robes spoke up from across the table. "The populace will never stand for this. They are already weary of this war that was supposed to last mere months. Soldiers are dying, trade is floundering and the treasury is rapidly depleting. If more troops are sent, there will be riots. And do not forget that the High Council must approve movements of the National Infantry or the Legions. They will never allow anything until their demands are met regarding the taxation of the Barons."

The emperor frowned, considering. "The Barons are the cause of this empire's monetary troubles. I will not exempt them from taxation. General, can you work with the Auxiliary? They are under my control, and mine alone."

"My lord," the politician interrupted again, "The Auxiliary? Sending proper soldiers from the National Infantry is one thing. At least they are all stoats, loyal Treyshan warriors, but the Auxiliary is a mixed rabble of… other, lesser races." At this, the politician cast a distasteful look at General Sagáz, the only member of the table not a stoat. "Besides, if we send the Auxilary to fight where the National Infantry has failed, the other races will get it in their heads that they are somehow superior, and then the dissenters will really have something to shout about."

"If you speak out of turn again, Devoro, your head will be the next to roll. I have not forgotten that it was on your advice that I sent so few troops in the initial invasion, trusting your certainty that the martins were merely savages, incapable of cooperating as they have. It was a mistake I won't be repeating.

Nevertheless, you have a point. The situation is already unstable, which presents a problem."

"What about the First Auxiliary Rangers?" General Sagáz asked. "That section of the Auxiliary always operates in secrecy anyway, under pain of death, and they are better suited to this conflict than perhaps even the legions."

The emperor paused again, considering. "Graff, the Rangers are a Special Operations Force. As such, they are your responsibility. How many are currently available to assist our forces on the northern front?"

"Three thousand, my lord," the colonel answered.

"Excellent. Sagáz, you will have to make do with three thousand. I place them under your authority. Send them north under a commander of your choice. I expect results."

"Yes, my lord. As you know, I served in the Rangers. I would like your permission to lead the force myself. I can end this conflict in a matter of weeks if only—"

"No, General. The northern front is not our only military concern. Your expertise is of greater use to me here."

The cat flicked his tail, but gave no other outward indication of his displeasure. "Of course, my lord."

Turning his eyes on another stoat at the table, the emperor said, "Horatio, what of the southern port cities? Have the food shortages been resolved?"

"No, my lord, they haven't," he answered. "But the problem is not the supply, it's the economic situation. The merchants can't afford to lower their grain prices, but the peasants can't afford to pay. The barons are keeping them in business by buying up the stores of grain. They've been selling the grain back to the peasants at lower prices along with harsh work contracts. The peasants have no choice but to accept the deal. There is no other food in the cities. There will be riots soon."

"Hmm. Horatio, you may open the royal storehouses and the treasury to manipulate the market as you see fit. Economics is your area of expertise. Solve this problem before there is bloodshed."

"Yes, my lord. You know of course, that such solutions are not sustainable?"

"Then either conditions will change, or we will change them when the time comes. The Barons will be dealt with by force if necessary. It's high time they were reminded who is in charge in this empire."

And so the meeting progressed, with discussions of finance, politics, and the condition of the empire at large, until at last, every beast had spoken. Only one issue remained.

For a moment, no one spoke. One of the politicians cleared his throat nervously. "My lord," he began, "There are, eh, rumors that, the Prince has begun, sending his personal guard, on, raids against several of the barons, some of whom, have, eh, become rather irritated, with, the damages, and—"

At this, Emperor Haldric finally relinquished his icy composure. Wearily, he closed his eyes and massaged his temple with a forepaw. "Silence, Ruso," he spat. "I will deal with my _son_ personally. If there is nothing else, you are all dismissed."

Every beast rose and departed without a word, leaving the emperor in his chair, thinking.


	10. Chapter 10

"I've not been a child in a very, long, time." Domovoi held Carlotta's gaze a moment longer, until movement at the door drew them both back to the present.

"Supper time!" Ranno announced cheerfully. Seeing Carlotta's unsettled expression, he frowned. "Everybeast alright?"

"Just fine, Ranno dear," Carlotta said flatly, composing herself. "You may escort him to dinner." Carlota stepped out without another word.

Ranno sighed, then returned to his former cheer. "Well come on, then! Time for you to meet the others."

Domovoi swung his freshly bandaged leg off the bed and joined Ranno in the hall. He used his staff to support himself so that his limp was nearly imperceptible.

"You've never seen food like this, mate," Ranno informed him as they walked. The stoat said nothing. "Folks are gonna ask all sorts o' questions, so if y'd rather not answer just say so an' I'll get 'em to leave ye be."

Domovoi glanced awkwardly at the otter, but didn't respond.

The stoat had surprisingly little trouble getting down the stairs, though he had to take them slowly. When they reached the door to the Great Hall, boisterous talk and laughter could be heard from the other side. Domovoi let out a feral hiss and took a step back from the door, eyes once again darting, looking for another exit.

Confused, Ranno tried to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but the stoat flinched away. "They won't try and kill ye mate," he said. "They're all friendly save a few."

With that, he pushed the door open and led the way into the crowded Hall. Domovoi followed hesitantly, still scowling.

Dinner had already begun. At least three score beasts of various woodland races sat around the table Domovoi had seen when he first arrived. The abbot's chair was nearest the stairs. The tapestrey of the warrior mouse took up much of the wall behind it, watching over the room. A massive feast lay sprawled before the abbey's inhabitants, with steaming soups, fresh salads, breads, cheeses, and too many other foods to mention all filling the place with a mouthwatering aroma. The stoat wrinkled his nose and followed nervously as Ranno guided him toward two empty seats near the middle of the table.

"Smile or somethin' mate, first impressions and all that," Ranno encouraged, taking the seat on the left.

Domovoi struggled to arrange his face into a more neutral expression, but hung back briefly from the offered seat, surrounded by so many other beasts on every side. Finally, he sat, leaning his staff against the table to his right. With his other hand, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, an uncomfortable gesture, as though he were unsure what to do with his hands.

Across the table, he recognized the female otter who shared Ranno's room. Next to her sat an otter lad perhaps a few seasons old.

"This is my mate, Elena, and my little 'un, Aaron," Ranno said, introducing them.

"Domovoi, isn't it?" Elena asked, smiling kindly as she ladled soup into a bowl for her son.

"Yes," the stoat answered, watching his surroundings attentively and still scratching the back of his neck.

"Ranno tells me you don't talk much," she said, trying to start a conversation.

Domovoi didn't answer. He jumped in surprise as the mole sitting to his right spoke. "Well, long as you baint talkin, you moit swell troi eh food, friend!" the plump creature said pleasantly, reaching around Domovoi's staff to spoon a large helping of something that smelled of butter and potatoes and various roots into the stoat's plate. "Deepern'ever turnip 'n tater 'n beetroot poi! Cain't 'ave a meal at Redwall wi'owt it!"

Seeing a way to avoid talking, the stoat took a tentative bite and chewed slowly, but didn't relax.

"That's the spirit ol' chap," called a hair sitting on the mole's other side. "No time for talk when there's grub to be had, wot! Desert first I always say! Give 'im some of the chestnut cake, Dunny!"

"Roight you are Reginald, roight you are, and some o' thiz cherry turnover too!" the mole, Dunny, said, adding a helping of each dish to the stoat's plate. "An' a mug o' October ale whoile you're at it!"

This went on for most of the evening, with many different Redwallers all trying to make his acquaintance and getting only his usual monosyllabic responses in return for their trouble. Domovoi continued to pick at the growing pile of food on his plate, fidgeting uncomfortably the whole time.

Finally, Abbot Frederic rose to address the room, tapping a spoon against his glass for silence. He spoke briefly about the success of the recent harvest, and plans for a feast in the coming weeks. "And," he went on, "As you must all know by now, we have a guest among us for dinner tonight. Domovoi will being staying here at Redwall until his injuries have healed. He will be given a room of his own for the duration of his stay. Domovoi is a guest of this abbey," the abbot added pointedly, looking at several faces in particular, "And is to be treated as such."

The large female badger to the abbot's right scowled, but said nothing.

"Goodnight to you all, and peaceful slumber," Abbot Frederic finished, sitting back down.

With that, the Redwallers gradually began getting up and shuffling of to their respective rooms or posts. Gregory went against the crowd toward the main door and the gatehouse. Elena picked up little Arron and moved off to bed.

"Well," Ranno said, patting his belly, "That went well. Such is life at Redwall. Lotta food, some work in the gardens, and the rest is time we've got to figure out what to do with. I miss runnin' wild with me clan sometimes, but I stayed here to marry Elena. Bit of a borin' life, but a happy one.

Anyhow, enough about me, let's see about gettin' you a room so you can finally sleep someplace besides the infirmary."

The badger was walking towards them now. She made an imposing figure, standing head and shoulders above Ranno and glowering darkly. As she approached, Domovoi reached up again to scratch nervously.

"So, you're the vermin Frederic has decided to harbor," she muttered. "Come with me. I'll show you to your room."

She moved toward the dormitories and Domovoi followed. Ranno trailed behind.

They stopped beside a room just like all the others near the middle of the hallway. The badger turned a key in the lock and pushed the door open. "This room has been empty for some time. Mine is the next one to the left. Take heed, vermin. Not every beast is so pleased to have you here. I sleep lightly, and if I find you wandering the abbey after dark, you might just have a little…_accident._" She beckoned him inside.

Ranno looked uneasy.

Dovovoi stepped warily past the badger and examined the room. There was a bed against the wall, a three legged stool in the corner, a hearth with a small stack of fire wood, and a narrow closet in the wall opposite the bed. A single window adorned the far wall, letting in a shaft of moonlight. There were several brackets to hold candles. Someone had retrieved his pack from the infirmary and set it on the bed. The shape of the pack told him it had been searched, and reassembled incorrectly. He turned back to find the badger smiling darkly down at him.

"Pleasant dreams, vermin." And with that, she closed the door behind him.

From outside, Ranno whispered "Really, Beth? Was all that necessary?"

"Completely. And you need to be careful. You'll be the one keeping an eye on him most of the time. Keep that creature in front of you and for goodness sake don't leave him alone with Elena or that little one of yours."

"Of course not."

"Promise me, Ranno."

"Alright, I get it."

"Thank you. Your heart's in the right place, but you're too trusting for your own good."

The door to the adjacent room opened and closed as Ranno's footsteps faded down the hall.

When all was quiet, the stoat withdrew a fork and a spoon from dinner, stolen from the table and hidden in the sleeve of his tunic. He pushed the fork into the crack between the door and the wall, then did the same with the window, pressing the spoon handle firmly between the two halves of the window, right above the latch. When opened, the window halves would swing like double doors, letting the metal spoon clatter noisily to the stone floor. The same would be true of the door.

That left the chimney… that way in would be too narrow for all but the smallest of creatures, or perhaps a snake. Reaching into his sleeve again, the stoat produced a length of thread, tied to the dart he had been throwing for the better part of a week. He knelt in front of the fire place and reached up the chimney. He used the point of the dart to press the thread into several different cracks in the stone, forming a web of sorts. The end was still tied to the dart. There was a narrow lip of stone above the hearth. Here, after wrapping the excess thread around its shaft, he balanced the dart precariously on its point with the fins leaning against the wall. If anything disturbed the web inside the chimney, it would upset the dart.

The stoat took a careful look under the bed, but found nothing unusual. He ignored his pack.

Last, he opened the small closet. Empty. Perfect. The open closet door hid its interior from sight from the window. The door to the room opened so that the closet was the last thing an intruder would see.

He stepped into the narrow space and sat against the back wall. The stones held a biting late autumn chill. He drew his knees close to his body, then leaned forward and put a paw behind his neck. Reaching down the back of his collar, the stoat drew his dagger, strapped to his back and concealed by his tunic.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the stone wall, resting both body and mind. But he didn't sleep. Not properly. He never did anymore. Hadn't in seasons. Certainly not in the last week.

Sleep was dangerous.

"

"

"

_ Soft dawn light reached over the treetops as Mazer padded across the clearing toward the sleeping stoat. The youngin was fast asleep still, breathing lightly and evenly, sitting with his back to a tree. Peaceful. _

_ Well, he wasn't lying on his back in the open, completely helpless, as some early students did. It was a start._

_ Mazer dropped a twig onto the dew covered grass in front of him, then brought his footpaw down on it violently. A sharp crack broke the early morning silence. The stoat twitched and stirred, but didn't wake fully. His eyes shut tighter and he rolled his shoulders slowly._

_Only a start. Mazer shifted his weight, and snapped his footpaw toward the youngin's head. He would improve soon. _

"

"

"

The young stoat twitched out of slumber suddenly. Something had broken his sleep, but his brain refused to start moving so quickly. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles.

A violent impact sent him reeling, eyes wide as the tree behind him vanished and the ground rushed to meet him from the other side. The stoat scrambled further in the same direction, away from his attacker, instincts kicking in as he drew his knife and—

A footpaw hit him hard in the gut from one side hard enough to send him several feet into the air to land nearer the center of the clearing, gasping, ears ringing, struggling to make the muscles in his abdomen unlock so he could breathe as, once again, the world spun and gravity seemed to be tilted at a sharp angle. But he was still holding onto his knife, and had regained his feet as he stood facing the cat.

"Never turn your back if you can help it," the cat growled. "You're inviting a second shot." He drew his broadsword and advanced.

The stoat crouched with his knife. The wooden sword had fallen and was now behind the approaching cat. The stoat started planning how he might get to that side of the clearing to retrieve it.

They spent the first hour of the day sparring just as violently as the previous evening. The stoat collected a new layer of cuts and bruises.

Later, they moved on to unarmed combat, and then to various gymnastic drills. The stoat had already been taught how to walk on his hands, flip forward and backwards off of objects of various heights, and how to fall from high places without injury. Some of these skills seemed useless, but the stoat had to admit they helped him feel more comfortable flying through the air, as happened periodically when Mazer decided to kick him again or hurl him by the scruff across the clearing. This would be followed up by an attack, armed or otherwise, whether the stoat was prepared or not.

Around noon, they stopped briefly. Mazer handed the stoat one of the dense loaves he had grown so used to by now, along with a canteen of water. The youngin downed the water first, then devoured the bread just as hurriedly, but was about to eat the last bite when Mazer attacked again, forcing him to drop it and defend himself.

This time as they fought, Mazer began teaching him to use all his different combat skills at once. It seemed unnatural at first, trying to punch and kick, or trip, or tackle in the middle of a sword fight, but Mazer started doing so, and made sure to motivate the stoat by striking far more painfully whenever he failed to do the same.

The afternoon was devoted to tracking. The students had all been given a basic understanding of the subject, along with many others, but Mazer was far more thorough. He also added a new twist to the lesson. Each time he pointed out some trace to look for, he also showed how to avoid leaving it. The cat taught various ways to cross many different types of terrain without leaving a trail, which ones an enemy would be most likely to choose, and which ones the stoat ought to choose himself under certain circumstances.

Then Mazer gave him instructions to flee and a five minute head start. When Mazer caught him, they resumed sparring. As they fought, Mazer gave advice on how to better avoid detection next time. After several minutes, they repeated the drill, this time with the stoat following Mazer back to the clearing. The cat left a deliberate trail to test how well the stoat had learned, taking a roundabout route and leaving several wooden beads to collect along the trail to ensure the stoat really was tracking him.

After tracking came a new drill. Mazer had a pouch of stones, each about the size of a large strawberry. These he proceeded to hurl at the stoat while giving instructions on how to doge them, how to watch and anticipate not just the stone as it flew, but the arm that did the throwing, and even the muscles that tightened in the split second before every movement.

This was followed by yet another sparring match, this one with an emphasis on anticipating an enemy's movements. It had been dark for nearly an hour when the stoat was finally allowed to sleep.

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_Mazer waited until the young stoat's breathing grew even before padding across the clearing to stand beside him. The lad slept far too soundly. That was dangerous. But no matter. He would learn. Mazer dropped a dry twig onto the grass between them, and brought his footpaw down on it with a sharp crack._

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End file.
